by P K Adams
* * *
It was past midnight when the banquet came to an end. Tired, I rose from the table to find Zaremba staring at me, before his features melted into a polite smile of acknowledgment. For an awkward moment, neither of us moved, not sure what to do. Then he walked up to me.
“I didn’t expect to see you here tonight,” he said with mild reproach.
I was puzzled. Surely, Bona’s protection did not extend to regulating my activities in Vilnius? “I thought it would be good to see His Majesty before I spoke to him in person on such a delicate business,” I said coolly.
“Of course.” He hastened to agree as if he realized he had spoken out of turn. With a gallant gesture, he extended his arm toward the great door, but we were forced to hang back until the press of people dissipated.
“Where are your rooms?” I asked once we exited the hall, and immediately regretted it.
“The same floor as yours, opposite wing,” he replied casually.
“Oh.” I did not know what else to say and glanced around for Maria, but she had disappeared.
“So what did you think?” Zaremba asked.
“About what? Oh, the duke.” I hesitated. I was not sure how much I should say before I had a chance to think more on it. “He appears taken with Barbara,” I replied vaguely, repeating what I had heard from so many people in the last few weeks.
“What about the rest of them?” he asked again as we passed through the chamber where the bathing nymphs hung next to the martyr saint. I averted my gaze, abashed in his presence, but Zaremba did not seem to notice it.
“The rest? Do you mean the courtiers at his table?”
He nodded.
“Well, they seem young and fond of entertainment …”
Zaremba gave a short bark of laughter. “They do, don’t they? Zygmunt doesn’t surround himself with experienced and strong advisors, people who have their own views, only with opportunists, idlers, and sycophants.”
Those were harsh words, but I could not deny their plausibility. Again I saw this behavior as a consequence of Bona imposing her will on both her husband and her son until the latter flew the coop for the freedom of Lithuania.
“Barbara’s brother, Mikołaj Rudy,” I said, “is he one of them?” I thought back on the imposing red-haired figure, with a gravitas the others did not possess, and the shrewd eyes with which he took in everything that went on in the hall, especially after his sister arrived.
Zaremba rubbed his beard. “An opportunist? Yes. A sycophant? Probably. But definitely not an idler. He wants to be a wojewoda, perhaps even a hetman one day. That’s more than can be said about the rest of that lot. If you ask me, he wants to rule Lithuania.”
“Rule? How?”
“Not directly, of course.” We started climbing the staircase to the third floor, our steps echoing off the stone. “But de facto.”
“Surely, the king’s favor—even if it’s a brotherly kind of favor—isn’t enough to amass such power? Does Rudy have a support base?”
Zaremba looked at me with something akin to admiration. “That’s a shrewd observation, signora. The queen knew what she was doing when she selected you as her envoy.” The compliment gave me unexpected pleasure, and I felt the heat of a blush rising to my face. At the age of fifty-three I had not thought that possible anymore. “But to answer your question,” he went on, “the basis of power is land, and the Radziwiłłs have plenty of it. They used to have even more. Like many magnate families, they were forced to mortgage their holdings to help pay for the army to defend us against Muscovy. But when the time came to reclaim their estates, Queen Bona demanded they provide proper documentation of ownership. Those who couldn’t produce all of the required papers lost their possessions, which she then bought up. Now she’s the largest landowner in the duchy and makes a fortune off her properties, which they resent.”
“And they still want their land back?”
“Of course. All of those families—the Gastolds, the Kiszkas, the Wolans, and many others. But it’s the Radziwiłłs who have maneuvered themselves into the best position to press their claims. That’s why they supported Zygmunt’s ascension to the duchy even before he’d met Barbara. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they arranged that meeting to further strengthen their hand.”
I pondered this. If Zaremba was correct, then—regardless of her own feelings—Barbara was a pawn of her family, a means of regaining wealth and strengthening power. What a sad position to be in! With a sense of dismay, I realized that I wanted it all to have a bigger meaning than petty family politics. “Perhaps their marriage would aid the cause of Polish-Lithuanian union,” I said. It was not a far-fetched idea: while co-existing in a commonwealth under one dynasty, the two nations remained administratively separate. For years there had been calls for a formal political union, which—its proponents believed—would bring great benefits to both parties.
Zaremba glanced at me with a bemused expression. “You think that because Polish magnates support the union, the Lithuanians do, too, but that is not so. Magnates like Rudy Radziwiłł are jealous of the power they have accumulated in the duchy and fear, perhaps justifiably, that it would be diluted. Captain Pretwicz”—he added, referring to his famous commander—“was in a council meeting with the king a few months ago and told me that Radziwiłł and others of his ilk had pressured Zygmunt to oppose a formal union.”
So Barbara’s family’s position was entirely self-serving. The enormity of the threat to Bona’s interests became even more clear to me. Quite apart from the dynastic implications, the Radziwiłłs’ rise would be her fall. Her power in Lithuania—and in due course in Poland—would all but vanish. But what if the king and Barbara really loved each other? Was the attainment of one goal worth sacrificing the other?
I blinked, as if that could relieve the headache building up somewhere behind my eyes. I had been right in hesitating to accept this mission. There would be no winners here. Whatever happened, someone would pay with heartbreak or humiliation.
We stopped at the door to my chambers. “I hope you succeed where others have failed,” Zaremba said. His wish sounded heartfelt, but I heard little optimism in his voice.
I struggled for a response; nothing seemed adequate. “I’ll do my best,” I said. It was the only truth by which I could swear. My headache intensified, and I wanted to retire.
“Perhaps this is a task that requires a woman’s touch,” he added unexpectedly, in a tone that caused something to lurch in my stomach, an anxious but not entirely unpleasant feeling. Why did he care so much? What was he trying to say?
The sudden silence between us offered no answers. The corridor was dimly lit by oil lamps set in holders wide apart, and I could not see the expression in Zaremba’s eyes, which, although blue, were now dark and shadowed under his brows.
“We shall see, and hopefully soon.” The sooner the better, for I did not know how much more of this tension I could sustain. “God give you good night.”
I closed the door behind me, then paused, listening. It was some moments before I heard his footsteps as he moved away down the corridor.
In the sitting chamber all was quiet, and the fire was dying in the grate. The maid had already left, and the others were sleeping. Then I saw a white rectangle on the table. I picked up the paper, luxuriously thick and edged in gold leaf, broke the seal that held the two ends together, and read:
His Grace Duke Zygmunt August
requests your presence at a private audience
tomorrow afternoon, at three o’clock.
I folded the invitation, surprised. I had not expected this kind of efficiency from such an informal court. In Kraków, far more stately and better organized, it could take weeks to be admitted. I took a deep breath, my chest swelling with anticipation and anxiety in equal measure.
For better or for worse, my mission was about to begin.
CHAPTER 7
Monday, September 7th, 1545
Despite the tapest
ries, the artwork, and the goblets of wine instead of mugs of ale, the atmosphere in the antechamber had something of the tavern about it. Young courtiers lounged around on cushion-strewn benches in poses of casual ease or played chess at tables inlaid with mother-of-pearl. I recognized two from the court in Kraków. Piotr Frikacz and Florian Zebrzydowski had accompanied the young king to Queen Elizabeth’s funeral, and I remembered Lucrezia rolling her eyes. “Libertines and good-for-nothings,” she had commented. “The queen believes they are a bad influence on her son.” Looking at Frikacz now, with his pouchy stomach and florid complexion, as he regaled a group of courtiers with a story amid loud outbursts of laughter, I could see her point.
Chamberlain Piotr Opaliński bade me wait until the preceding audience ended. A mild man in his early fifties, he wore a dark blue velvet robe and a simple black cap without any adornments. His demeanor, polite and serious, stood in stark contrast to the others. He did not express his opinion in any obvious way, but I sensed that he did not care much for the youths who idled around the antechamber. The queen had spoken fondly of Opaliński, so either he had received his appointment at her recommendation or, more likely, acted informally as her eyes and ears around the Lithuanian court.
My wait lasted a quarter of an hour, during which Opaliński offered me a goblet of tokay. Clearly the duke had a predilection toward sweet wines. I took only two sips, finding the Hungarian less to my liking than the Greek from the banqueting hall. But such was not the case with the courtiers: before I was ushered into Zygmunt’s presence, a servant had to bring up two more flagons to replenish their cups.
The audience chamber was one of the most luxurious I had ever seen. Gilded wallpaper lined its walls, and tapestries hung everywhere. Gold tassels tied back window curtains of the finest moss-green velvet. The windows, like those in the banqueting hall, gave onto the gardens. Spots of red and yellow already touched the tops of the trees along the far wall, which once separated the lovers—a breathtakingly beautiful view when framed by the curtains. Beyond the trees were the gray stone walls of the Radziwiłł residence. I wondered if Barbara still lived there or whether she had moved into the ducal palace.
Zygmunt August was alone save for his secretary, Augustyn Mieleski, an obese man of around thirty appropriately nicknamed Rotundus. Mieleski’s head was almost completely bald, except for a spare, tawny ring from one ear to the other around the back, and his cheeks had a rosy glow that gave him a benevolent look. Zygmunt sat on a raised chair near the windows under a tapestried baldachin bearing the coats of arms of the Jagiellons and the Sforzas as well as the emblems of Poland and Lithuania. It was a movable canopy of state, for I had caught a glimpse of it the day before, while passing by the formal reception chamber on the floor below.
In response to the warmth of the afternoon, the duke wore a sleeveless jerkin of black and red leather cut in the Neapolitan style with a row of silver buttons on the right side of his chest. His white silk shirt had wide sleeves that gathered at the wrists, finely embroidered there and around the collar. A silver clasp secured his short black velvet cape at the neck. With black hose and breeches, the latter striped with the same velvet as the cape, the ensemble was elegantly understated and flattered his frame, slim but strong, a testament to his love of hunting and the outdoors. A feathered cap rested on his slightly curling brown hair. From up close, his skin looked even more swarthy, a clear Aragonese trait.
A gilded Italian sword was strapped to Zygmunt’s belt, and he cut a soldierly figure, even if he did prefer to collect armor rather than wear it into battle. As I had two months earlier, I found only a passing similarity between the young man before me and the serious, wide-eyed boy in the Padovano medallion. His eyes were still large and dark, and there was a melancholy look in them when he was not speaking, but something in the set of his full lips was both sensual and cynical and must have resulted from his overindulged, undisciplined youth.
When the door closed behind me, he beckoned me with a hand adorned with the ducal ring.
I approached his chair and curtsied. “Your Grace,” I addressed him with the title Opaliński had advised me he preferred. Did he deem himself unworthy of “Your Majesty” while his father still lived? Or was the demand intended to irritate his mother, who had single-handedly caused him to be elevated to the title of “king” when he was all of nine years old, the mother who had later so vocally opposed his assumption of the ducal role? I suspected the latter.
“Signora Konarska.” He motioned me to rise, which I did gratefully. “You have come to Vilnius all the way from Bari, by way of Kraków, to seek a cure for your son?” He spoke in fluent and elegant Italian, only slightly accented. Despite his feud with his mother, his speech, attire, and taste in art showed that he was deeply attached to his Sforza heritage. It made me feel more warmly toward him.
“I have,” I replied, pleased to see that he had taken the trouble to prepare, and that he was proceeding straight to the point. In that, he reminded me strongly of Bona. “Giulio has suffered from recurring fevers for some years now, and none of the physicians we consulted could help him. My husband comes from Kraków, where we were advised to seek help from Doctor Nascimbene, whose expertise is widely praised.”
The duke’s eyes narrowed, as if he were trying to recall something. “Did your husband once serve at the court of my father?”
Despite his courteous tone, my breath froze. Why was he asking this? Was his next question going to be about my service to Bona? If so, he might throw me out without giving me a chance to see Nascimbene.
“Yes, Your Grace,” I said, striving to keep my voice even. A film of perspiration broke out on my upper lip.
“I thought your name was familiar.”
“My husband remembers His Majesty King Zygmunt as a kind and generous lord,” I said quickly, and truthfully enough. “That’s why we have decided to petition Your Grace for this favor.” I did not know how much longer I could keep up this vagueness.
“Yes,” he said slowly, his mind still searching for something that seemed to elude him. “How old is your son?”
“He has just turned ten, but he looks no more than seven, because of the frequent illness that has kept him in indoors and in bed for such a long time.”
Zygmunt’s eyes softened, momentarily erasing the polite reservation with which he had treated me so far. Lucrezia, Maria, and Zaremba had all spoken of his secretive and distrustful nature, but when I described the effects of Giulio’s condition, he seemed genuinely affected. “Then we will do all we can to help him have a healthy and carefree childhood.” For a few heartbeats his eyes seemed to glaze over with emotion, but he recovered quickly, and the mask of regal detachment returned to his face.
Like mother, like son.
“Thank you,” I replied.
The duke gestured toward his secretary. “Pan Mieleski will arrange a consultation with Doctor Nascimbene as soon as possible.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Rotundus bowed and scribbled something on a parchment that rested on a portable desk supported by straps slung around his bull neck.
“Is there anything else, signora?” Zygmunt asked, his tone still benevolent.
If there was any time that I had his goodwill, it was now. But how could I use it to ask him not to marry a woman he loved for the sake of the national interest? And how could I reveal now that I was acting as his mother’s messenger? The impossibility of the task rendered me mute. I was afraid for Giulio. I wanted to believe that the caring and compassionate Zygmunt I had glimpsed would not take back the promise made to a desperate, pleading mother, but was not his own mother equally desperate and pleading, and yet he remained unmoved? The words I had been sent to speak would not form on my tongue; it was as if they turned to ash in my mouth.
“Well?” The duke tilted his head, and in that moment the door from the antechamber opened.
Zygmunt’s eyes traveled over my shoulder, and a warm smile broke on his lips. “My dear Mikołaj! Come in.”
I held my breath. Mikołaj Rudy passed me and took the chair closest to the baldachin on the duke’s right side. He did not wait to be invited, and he sat casually, thighs spread, one silk hose-clad leg folded under the chair, the other out and at an angle, the tip of his pointy shoe swaying idly. His whole demeanor exuded an air of familiarity so great that it bordered on proprietorship.
Dismay and relief fought inside me. Dismay because the Radziwiłłs’ presence in the palace and the duke’s favor they so obviously enjoyed meant that Bona had already lost, and in due course the country might lose, too. But also relief that fate had intervened by sending Rudy into the audience chamber in that precise moment and prevented me from having to complete my task for the queen. I did not want to succeed, if it meant standing in the way of two lovers who seemed so devoted to each other. And if I failed to persuade Zygmunt, which was far more likely, I would only incur the displeasure, perhaps even hostility, of the man who would soon be the sole king of Poland.
I left the audience in a kind of fog, struggling to reconcile the mixed outcome of my efforts. My son would finally see a competent physician, yet I had let Queen Bona down. When I first reached Vilnius, I had planned to ask for another audience, after Doctor Nascimbene examined Giulio, to thank the duke for his help and present the queen’s case, come what may. But after today, I understood, deep inside, that I would not take that step. In the end, I would use the Radziwiłłs’ power as my shield.
* * *
In my sitting chamber, I found Giulio on the floor, playing with painted wooden blocks. With intense concentration, he stacked them into a structure resembling a fortress. In a chair by the hearth, Maria greeted me with a cheery smile. She held a porcelain bowl of sugared almonds in her lap. It was all I could do not to grimace, because she was the last person I wanted to see. I needed time alone to sort out my thoughts.