Midnight Fire (A Jagiellon Mystery Book 2)

by P K Adams

  “Lucrezia wrote that his body is stronger than his mind,” I added by way of reassuring him and myself. “There didn’t seem to be any signs of impending death.”

  Before Sebastian looked away, I read in his eyes the same concern I had: the king’s death might indefinitely delay our petition.

  We continued the rest of the way in silence until we at last pulled up in front of Emilia’s sizable stone-and-timber house, red-roofed like most of its neighbors. On this elegant street and in front of its polished exterior, our carriage looked even shabbier than it had in Konary. A maid in an immaculately starched white apron promptly appeared in answer to our knock. Her eyes, too, were red-rimmed and blurry from crying.

  My stomach flipped. “What has happened?” I asked, steeling myself to hear my fears confirmed.

  “A great tragedy, mistress.” The maid struck a lamenting tone as she wiped her eyes with the cuff of her dress. “Our gracious queen has died.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Kraków, June 15th, 1545

  I swayed on my feet. The emotion of returning to Kraków after so many years, the desperation with which I had awaited Bona’s help, and now this terrible news threatened to overwhelm me. The queen was the healthiest person I knew; I saw her as indestructible. Were we too late? Had the hardship of the journey been in vain? What would happen to Giulio now?

  “Is it true?” I asked Emilia, who came out swiftly on the maid’s heels to welcome us. “Is Her Majesty dead? I always thought she would outlive the rest of us!”

  My sister-in-law, who did not appear nearly as grief-stricken as the maid, frowned at my shocked reaction. Then her brow smoothed as she looked from me to Sebastian, who stood equally dispirited next to me. “Ah! There seems to be a misunderstanding,” she exclaimed, pecking her brother on the cheek and drawing me into an embrace. “Caterina! You haven’t changed one bit. I can’t believe you just turned fifty-three!”

  “What do you mean by ‘a misunderstanding’?” I asked when I finally managed to extricate myself. When I had last seen Emilia—in 1520, the year of my marriage and departure from Kraków—she was a slender girl of sixteen with a fresh and bright complexion, like a ripening apple. Now she was overweight, with a double chin under a pasty white—though heavily rouged—face, which testified both to the prosperity of the house and an indoor way of living. I cast around for a way to return the compliment, but nothing came to mind.

  She mistook that for another sign of distress. “Let’s sit down.” She took me by the arm and led us to her well-appointed dining hall. “There is a lot you probably don’t understand about the present state of our kingdom. It was the young king’s wife, Elizabeth of Austria, who passed away this morning, God rest her soul. The poor thing was only eighteen.”

  When Emilia’s husband, Leon Grabowski, similarly portly though slightly shorter, joined us, the two of them set out to explain the complicated situation of the royal family.

  “Fifteen years ago, Queen Bona decided to secure young Prince Zygmunt’s future by having him declared king during his father’s lifetime,” Leon began as we settled at the long table in the oak-paneled hall that ran the length of the house. In front of us stood full goblets of wine as we waited for servants to bring the first course of our supper. “She was aware of her unpopularity,” he continued, “due in large part to her interference in state affairs and the agriculture reforms that infuriated the landowners, the same ones who elect a new king after his predecessor’s demise.” As one of the leading city merchants, Leon had broad contacts at the court and was well-versed in its politics as well as, I suspected, its intrigues.

  Sebastian and I nodded. We knew of Zygmunt August’s elevation in 1530; but as the years went on, and his father continued in good health, the practical aspects of this peculiar co-kingship had lost their meaning, at least to us in faraway Bari. So much so that we had ceased to think of Poland as having two living kings—and, in due course, two queens.

  “How was it received?” Sebastian asked.

  “Not very well. In fact, the magnates’ hostility toward the queen only increased, as they claimed she had preempted their privilege. But they had no choice but to accept it.” Leon spread his arms. “I questioned the wisdom of that move as well, since the succession was all but guaranteed, and the election a mere formality.”

  “Her Majesty did no more than any mother would have to secure her only son’s future,” Emilia interjected with a firm toss of her gem-encrusted headdress, yet more evidence of the family’s good fortune. A mother of eight, she had become so round that I wondered if offspring number nine was on the way. If so, she might be forgiven for ascribing such tender motivations to the queen. But I knew Bona better than anyone in that chamber. While I had no doubt that she was a devoted mother—I had seen that side of her often enough in my time—the move could only have been inspired by her desire to continue to wield power as her elderly husband declined.

  Leon waved his hand dismissively at his wife’s comment just as the doors opened and servants brought in a platter of roasted venison in a spicy sauce, bowls of stew, and loaves of white bread. It was surprisingly rustic fare, and it delighted me. Across the table, Sebastian’s face showed me that he felt the same way.

  When the servants retreated, Leon said, dropping his voice, “If you ask me, the queen cossetted the heir too much. Fulfilled his every wish, kept him from practical military training for fear that he would hurt himself, and when he was old enough provided women for his entertainment.” Seeing my surprise, he nodded, while his wife tutted in disapproval of his mentioning such a thing at the table. “They say he prefers feasting and hunting to governing, and would sooner collect armor and weapons for display than wear them to lead men in battle.”

  I cut a juicy piece of the venison, and it tasted as good as it smelled. I chewed slowly, thinking about what I had just heard. “What did the old king have to say to that?” I asked.

  “He did try to toughen the boy up,” Leon replied. “When he turned eighteen, the king sent him to inspect the troops bound for Wallachia, but the youngster soon complained through messengers of hardships and poor health, and the queen implored her husband to bring him home. Now Zygmunt Stary’s mind is feeble and his body frail, and he spends his days in bed, while his son stays in Vilnius most of the time, where he is grand duke. From what I hear”—Leon lowered his voice again, although the four of us were alone—“he’s mainly enjoying himself with his friends—and women.” He raised his bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows meaningfully.

  Emilia sent him another reproachful look. “You shouldn’t say such things, my dear. The young king is—was—a married man.”

  I, who had served at courts in Italy and Poland, smiled inwardly at her naïveté.

  I understood immediately why Bona had raised her son that way. It was a logical consequence of her ambition and her forceful personality. “The queen wanted to make young Zygmunt dependent on her,” I said, “so she would become his confidant and chief advisor, perhaps even rule through him one day.” As she did through her husband.

  “That’s exactly right, sister. Nobody would say it aloud anywhere near her, but that’s what many at the court believed.” I had never met Leon before today—Emilia married after we left for Bari—but my brother-in-law appeared to delight in gossip as much as any goodwife. I did not judge him for it. After years in the Italian provinces, I was starved for news of the goings-on at court. “It can’t have been easy for a boy growing up like that,” he opined. “Nor is it proper for a man to rely on a woman’s counsel.” He shook his head disapprovingly.

  I took a draught of the excellent French wine as I mulled over what I had heard. So things had not changed much—first through her husband and now through her son, Bona tried to hold the kingdom’s reigns tightly in her hands. It was the outcome of years of patient, determined, and at times ruthless maneuvering. And yet …

  “Why did Zygmunt August marry a Habsburg?” I asked, thinking of the recently dec
eased Elizabeth. “It can’t have been to Her Majesty’s liking.”

  “Aye. The old queen adamantly opposed it. She wanted Anna Maria, daughter of Albrecht of Prussia, to strengthen the loosening bonds with that principality, or, barring that, a French princess. It was a big win for the Habsburg-friendly forces and a bitter pill for Bona to swallow when that marriage contract was agreed upon. But she seemed to have made her peace with it. They say she took good care of her daughter-in-law during her illness. And now, of course, Elizabeth’s death opens the door to a second dynastic marriage.”

  “Rulers from all over Europe will be offering their daughters’ hands to the newly widowed king as soon as Elizabeth is buried,” Emilia said, excited.

  “I can’t wait to see who the queen will back.” I had no doubt she would do everything in her power to stop another marriage to one of the many Habsburg princesses from the lands stretching from Hungary to Spain.

  Emilia shifted in her seat, her eyes sparkling. “Oh, there are rumors flying up and down the kingdom!” Her plump hand fluttered to her chest, where her breasts threatened to spill out of the confines of her low neckline. “The daughter of the Duke of Ferrara has been mentioned, as well as Princess Marguerite of France, and even Mary of England! Imagine all the betting in the taverns,” she added with a half-hearted note of disapproval.

  If she were a man, something told me, she would be among the first to place her bet.

  But neither she nor anyone else at the table that night had any idea of how vicious the ensuing contest would become.

  CHAPTER 3

  July 10th, 1545

  The young king was not in Kraków when his wife died. By then, he resided mainly in Vilnius, where he administered Lithuania in preparation for assuming the sole responsibility for ruling the two nations. I found it odd that he had remained away even as Elizabeth’s health deteriorated, although it appeared that her death was unexpected. Messengers were dispatched with all haste to the ducal court that same day to inform Zygmunt August of her passing. After that, Kraków assumed the mantle of mourning as it awaited the widower’s arrival and prepared for the young queen’s funeral.

  He did not enter the capital until the end of the first week of July, and the date of the burial was fixed for the tenth day of that month. Sebastian and I went to stay with Emilia and Leon again, and on the sweltering morning of the somber ceremony we made our way to Wawel. Leon, through his connections at the court, had secured for the four of us a place in the stands erected in the castle’s forecourt, outside the cathedral.

  Unlike the crowds that clogged the streets around the castle hill, we enjoyed shelter from the relentless sun, provided by blue- and yellow-striped awnings. Despite the occasion, I could not help but admire the new royal chapel. I had seen its foundations laid shortly before I left Poland, and in subsequent years Master Bartolomeo Berrecci had overseen its completion. Built in the Italian style on a square base, it had round windows surrounded by intricately carved decorations and a dome topped with a spire supporting an angel holding a crown and a cross. According to Emilia, the inside was full of sculptures and paintings commissioned from the most renowned European artists. The old king, nearing the end of his life, would have a splendid place to rest, as would future generations of Jagiellon rulers.

  For now, though, we awaited another, far more premature funeral to begin. Pennants and banners surrounded us, snapping in gusts of hot wind from across the river. Alongside the black banners of mourning flew others bearing the double cross of the Jagiellons, the serpents and eagles of the Sforzas, and the red lions of the Habsburgs. I watched the embroidered animals, fluttering and undulating side-by-side in a semblance of coordinated movement that mocked the hostility between the royal houses they represented.

  The irony was not lost on me nor, I felt certain, on those around me. Somehow, despite her maneuverings, Bona had been forced to accept this marriage, and although Leon insisted she had surrounded Elizabeth with the best care, I could not help thinking that the young queen’s demise must have suited her. Indeed, rumors were already circulating—spread, Leon told me, by Habsburg agents in the city—that the young queen had not died of natural causes, and that her mother-in-law had something to do with it.

  “The latest,” Emilia whispered in my ear even as we sat waiting for the funeral procession to begin, “is that one of Elizabeth’s maids died suddenly just days before the young queen after drinking a poison intended for her mistress.”

  I struggled to conceal my dismay. Mention poison, and fingers immediately pointed to the first Italian that came to mind. And there was no more prominent Italian in Kraków than Bona Sforza.

  “But others say the girl died of a bad lung,” Emilia went on without waiting for me to respond. “It’s impossible to know the truth, and, in any case, I don’t see how that has anything to do with Elizabeth, who was known to have seizures. It was those seizures that eventually claimed her life.”

  I took heart from Emilia’s certainty, for I did not believe those rumors either. For one thing, the Habsburgs were prone to the same falling sickness that afflicted Elizabeth and had killed quite a few of them over the years. As for Bona, she may have been ambitious, stubborn, at times even ruthless, but the continuation of the dynasty meant everything to her. Once she accepted she could no longer prevent the marriage, she would have focused her energies on helping her daughter-in-law produce an heir as soon as possible, rather than get rid of her. I knew the old queen to be capable of many things, but not of murder.

  All the same, I could well imagine her sighing a quiet breath of relief as morning dawned on the fifteenth day of June.

  The sudden cascade of clangs bursting from the bell tower put an end to my musings. Next to me, Sebastian too heaved a sigh of relief. He reached for a handkerchief to wipe his forehead—where his hair had receded greatly since we met and was now more gray than brown—for the third time in the last half-hour. As he did so, the ornate iron gate connecting the castle to the forecourt opened with a metallic groan, and the cortege emerged on its short, somber procession toward the cathedral.

  Piotr Gamrat led the way. I recognized him even from a distance: Bona’s former advisor who now served as the Bishop of Kraków and Gniezno, the latter see making him Primate of Poland ex officio. During my brief service at the court years earlier, he had been a portly middle-aged man with a balding pate. Now stooped with age and completely hairless under his miter, he leaned heavily on his crozier, confirming the rumors about his failing health. Behind him, reining in their horses to match the bishop’s doddering pace, were a dozen knights on fine chestnuts—half wearing the colors of the Jagiellons, the other half those of the Habsburgs. Immediately behind them four splendid white horses caparisoned in black velvet pulled a flat, open carriage bearing a casket draped in the same cloth. An enormous wreath of white roses lay on the casket beside a crown studded with jewels that sparkled in the midday sun. A flash of sorrow touched my heart at the thought of the young queen, one-third my own age, gone so soon from this earth.

  The raised dais of the stands allowed me to peer over the heads of the people in front of me. From a distance I saw Queen Bona, clad in black from head to toe, stepping solemnly behind the casket next to her son, followed by bishops and deacons from around the realm. The clergy chanted a hymn; behind them walked row upon row of nobility and courtiers. I could not take my eyes off the queen until she disappeared inside the great church.

  Always plump, Bona had expanded in every dimension except height over the years, an effect only enhanced by her mourning attire. The folds of her gown started at her bosom, then billowed out before falling to the ground in a straight line, making it impossible to discern her waist. Her face, as far as I could make out, was stern, even dour, yet one could not mistake the regal dignity that her straight posture and deliberate movements still conveyed. She was shorter than most people around her, but her majesty towered above them.

  A sudden, unexpected emotion seized
me. Almost thirty years earlier, I had watched her in that same spot as she stepped down from the carriage that had brought her from Bari to meet her new husband. She had been young and beautiful and smiling that day. A lifetime of struggle to acquire, maintain, and expand her power had stripped that beauty from her and left marks many would consider unflattering. But I knew that, were she able to go back, she would have changed nothing.

  Queen Bona was where she wanted to be, and something told me that she was not done yet.

  * * *

  I caught only glimpses of the young king during the procession. He walked on his mother’s far side, and her bulk hid his slim figure from my view. But after the funeral came a reception, where I had the chance to observe him for the first time.

  Most of those attending belonged to the family and the highest ranks of the realm: officials, nobles, senators, and bishops. Of the small number of seats set aside for other guests, Lucrezia had secured two for us. Walking to the new banqueting hall, I marveled at the extent of the renovations that had taken place since my departure from Bona’s court. As with the new burial chapel, the influence of the Italian style of building and decoration was evident inside the castle. I saw new coffered ceilings; larger and airier rooms, with windows and doors that opened from the arched arcades; and many sumptuous tapestries that enhanced the residence’s air of grandeur despite the black ribbons draped on the gilded candelabras and wall-mounted sconces.

  The tables had already been set when we arrived, and it did not take me long to realize another difference: the food was Neapolitan. Seeing my surprise, Lucrezia explained that Bona had long since made good on her threat to bring Italian cooks to Kraków. Nicolo Maria de Charis, a native of Naples, served as their chief at present. I took in the platters heaped with chunks of octopus and cod fried in olive oil, pork rolls stuffed with raisins and pine nuts, flattened wheat cakes garnished with herbs and cheese, bowls of pickled vegetables, and trays of oranges and grapes. As I did so, I thought of old Michałowa, who ruled the castle’s kitchen when Bona and I first arrived in Kraków, and how the poor woman must be turning in her grave.