by P K Adams
“He said he’d pay for a bed at an inn tonight and leave tomorrow mornin’,” she added, but she did not know which inn he had in mind.
“We’ll need a description of this young man,” Opaliński said.
The maid frowned. Her scrunched-up nose told me the image in her head had not impressed her. “Thin and scruffy, yellow hair like a mop of straw, dirty rings ’round his neck.” She dragged a finger across her throat. “Didn’t go near the washbasin the whole time he was ’ere.”
The chamberlain rolled his eyes. Oksana had just described most of the local urchins, although this one was somehow able to pay for a bed. Still, we would be looking for a needle in a haystack in a city that had as many inns and taverns as Kraków.
* * *
From Oksana’s chamber we went to Opaliński’s office, where I was glad to see refreshments laid out, for it was past two o’clock in the afternoon. A small but comfortably appointed office, it adjoined the duke’s antechamber and offered a refuge from the beehive created by petitioners and courtiers awaiting an audience.
But not today. A few young men idled in the antechamber as we passed through, but their faces showed they had no hope of admittance to Zygmunt’s presence.
“I told those who arrived this morning that His Grace was indisposed and wouldn’t see anybody,” Opaliński said, pouring us each a cup of warm cider. He gave me a look to signify it was only an excuse. “But a few stalwarts will linger, hoping to get noticed and favored for their dedication,” he added, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.
I seated myself in a soft upholstered chair across from his desk and took a small fluffy pastry dusted with cinnamon and sugar from a platter. “How fares Barbara?” I asked.
“She’s shaken. The duke hasn’t left her side since last night.”
“He seems very devoted to her.”
The chamberlain nodded. “More than he ever was to his wife.”
I studied him, trying to discern a deeper meaning behind his words. Did he disapprove of Zygmunt’s treatment of the late Elizabeth? By all accounts, the duke had been inconsiderate and unkind, but it was also true that she had been foisted on him, although no more than he upon her. But Opaliński sounded matter-of-fact, and his mild blue eyes shone with wisdom and understanding. Lack of affection was common in arranged political marriages, and the chamberlain, experienced courtier that he was, must have seen his share of them.
“Until this Jurgis is found, there isn’t much else we can do,” I said, bringing us back to the issue at hand. On the way to his office, Opaliński had sent for the captain of the guard.
“So what do you think, Caterina?” he asked. Somewhere along the way we had switched to the familiar mode of address. “Was Barbara truly the target?”
“Yes,” I said cautiously. “I think so. The duke’s affair upsets many people, and some of the powerful would welcome her demise.” I could not say anymore. I could not level such a grave accusation at anybody without solid evidence.
Opaliński did not have such qualms. “His Grace believes the orders came from Kraków.”
“If he already knows who’s behind it, why did he order me to find out?” I tried to hide my irritation.
“He wants to be sure.” He raised a hand in a placating gesture. “He’ll accept the truth whatever it turns out to be,” he added diplomatically when I narrowed my eyes at him.
“So let’s begin with what we know for certain. The Habsburg envoys brought the Spanish wine to the palace.” I won’t deny that I felt a certain satisfaction in pointing that out.
“That’s true,” he admitted. “Although the duke isn’t the only person benefiting from Karl von Tilburg’s generosity. The ambassador is known to share his wine with those whose favor he seeks. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s plying half the court with it to secure pledges to back the imperial marriage suit.”
He was right. Had not Zaremba received a flagon, too? Although I was not sure how his backing would help the Habsburgs. Perhaps they overestimated his status: Zaremba cut a fine figure, his clothes and bearing suggesting someone higher-born than a knight from the Lithuanian hinterland. But Zaremba had said the same thing as Opaliński: the ambassador was proud of his wine and shared it with many, any one of whom might have attacked Barbara. It seemed like a dead end, although I was not ready to let go of it yet.
“Besides,” Opaliński went on, “using their own wine to poison Barbara would be too obvious, wouldn’t it?”
“Perhaps that’s what they want us to think.”
He shook his head, as if he found it hard to believe. Then an idea occurred to him, “But if we’re thinking of a German connection, what about the Hohenzollerns?”
“I’m afraid that after so many years in Italy, I’m not familiar with the finer points of your foreign policy,” I admitted ruefully.
Opaliński threw his head back, calculating. “It was a decade or so ago. The Elector of Brandenburg appealed to the old king to grant him succession rights to the Duchy of Prussia. The king refused under pressure from Queen Bona. Perhaps committing this crime in the hopes that the queen would be blamed was the Prussians’ way of exacting revenge?”
It was far-fetched but not impossible. “Perhaps, but the Habsburg ambassador is here and the Hohenzollern one is not. In any case,” I added, “I believe His Grace should query von Tilburg.”
Before Opaliński could reply, the door to his office flew open. I turned to see something that brought to my mind the image of a charging bull. The man who came through the door, nearly filling its frame with his broad shoulders, was red in the face, his bushy beard framing a mouth that quivered in barely suppressed rage. Rudy.
The chamberlain rose and bowed courteously but showed little alarm. If anything, a faint shadow of annoyance crossed his features. “My Lord Radziwiłł.”
“I was halfway to Nesvizh when a messenger caught up with me to inform me of the attempt on my sister’s life,” Mikołaj Rudy barked. “What is the meaning of this?”
“It was most unfortunate, but your lady sister is safe, praise God. His Grace is with her.”
“I know! Her chamber is locked!” Rudy, I guessed, was not used to having doors barred against him.
“As soon as His Grace comes out, I’ll inform him of your lordship’s return.”
“Hmm.” He grunted, although it sounded more like a growl.
Opaliński turned to me. “Have you met Pani Caterina Konarska from Kraków? She is helping me uncover the identity of the man who committed this vile act.”
Helping him? But the moment I saw Rudy’s glance slide over me, disinterested if not dismissive, I knew why Opaliński had said that.
Barbara’s brother made a perfunctory bow in my direction before turning back to the chamberlain. “And what have you found so far?”
“We have only just interviewed—”
“It was that Italian witch! She will interfere in her son’s and the duchy’s affairs until her last breath,” he spat.
I was shocked at the way he referred to the queen. Alluding to her death might even be treason.
Opaliński’s face became even more of a courtiers’ mask. “We are considering all possibilities.”
“There is nothing to consider, my Lord Opaliński.” Rudy paced the chamber like a caged bear, and I took a step back. His presence was suffocating—not just because of his physical size but because of the energy of his anger and the ambition he did not bother to hide. I wanted to run out of there.
As if in response to that silent wish, the captain of the guard appeared on the threshold. It was a good opportunity to leave. Before I reached the door of the antechamber, I heard Opaliński’s voice give the captain his dispositions.
The search for Jurgis was about to commence.
* * *
As night fell and the waiting continued, I had one more thing to do—inform Zaremba that we would not leave the following day. I had not seen him since the previous night and had no desire to pay anothe
r visit to his chamber. Nor did I want to explain why I was postponing our departure. I decided to send a note via Rasa saying I was delayed, which I hoped would buy me time. Tomorrow or the next day, the culprit might be found—or at least identified, if he had already left the city—freeing me to return home to deal with the consequences of this strange turn of events.
I scribbled a few words and gave the piece of paper to the maid as she left for the night.
Then I went to bed, still entertaining a shred of hope yet unable to shake off an obscure sense of foreboding. But I was so exhausted that it did not prevent me from falling asleep quickly.
CHAPTER 11
Friday, September 11th, 1545
The next morning, there was still no news regarding Milda’s cousin. I therefore decided to go and see the route Barbara’s would-be assassin had taken from the palace to the kitchen door. I wrapped my cloak around me, for the day, although sunny, was cool.
The state rooms on the ground floor of the main wing all faced the gardens. I stopped in the middle of the formal reception chamber. It was empty but for a guard at each end. The heavy velvet curtains were pushed aside, and the golden-white light of mid-morning poured through the high windows that doubled as doors, their tops crowned with graceful, gilded arches. One of those windows was open, and I moved toward it, ready to plead the need for fresh air should the guards question me. But they said nothing as I slipped outside.
I had glimpsed the gardens from the duke’s audience chamber and the banqueting hall upstairs, but the sight that greeted me here was even more splendid. From the stone terrace that ran the length of the wing, I stepped down a graceful staircase into a Mediterranean-style garden, its center occupied by a fountain in the shape of a syrena. Half-woman, half-fish in a kneeling position, she held a sword and shield and thrust out her naked, voluptuous torso proudly above a tail covered in scales. It was an old Polish victory symbol that one of the Jagiellon monarchs must have commissioned for his Lithuanian residence. Water bubbled from the platform and trickled around it, giving the statue the illusion of floating. Around the fountain, paths of white gravel radiated in every direction, intersecting with concentric circles of the same stone. Between the paths lay immaculately maintained beds of flowers, past their prime—except for roses that still gave off a sweet scent—but still impressive in their array of varieties and colors.
I stood for a long moment, transfixed by the beauty before me. The lush late-summer aspect conjured an image of ripeness and fertility, although there were no fruit trees—only decorative oaks, maples, and cypresses along the perimeter and a variety of bushes trimmed into rounded or elongated shapes along the gravel paths. Most of the trees were still green, with only the first tentative bursts of color. In another month, the garden would look glorious in its full autumnal splendor. Inevitably, my mind traveled to Konary and its leafy estate. In our orchard, the hard little apples would be ripening into sweet, juicy fruit ready for plucking.
I thought about Sebastian walking among the trees, inspecting them while keeping an eye on the building repairs. I had not thought much about him in these last whirlwind days, but now I missed him. I felt ashamed of some of the things, innocent though they were, that had passed between me and Zaremba. Had my husband and I drifted so far apart that I would entertain the idea of an affair? Silently I promised myself that when I returned home, we would talk about everything that had remained unspoken between us for so long, and we would try again. Hopefully, it was not too late. The thought gave me a pang of anxiety, and I pulled the cloak closer about me.
Shaking off those thoughts, I took the shortest path, which ran left alongside the terrace, to the northeast corner of the palace. It ended where the lawn began, the same lawn I saw when I came out of the kitchen with Opaliński yesterday morning. I was now certain that the person we sought had reached the kitchen by this route sometime after eight o’clock on Wednesday night. Under the cover of darkness, there was little chance of being seen in this area. No one had legitimate business here at night. In fact, the grass, now dry, revealed a faint track leading up to the door. I followed it but could see no discernible footprints that might tell me something about the culprit’s type of footwear, size, or, indeed, sex.
Disappointed, I turned to walk back but opted for the less direct route, taking one of the garden paths. The morning breeze had died down, the air was still and clear, and the sun had leached the chill out of it. When I returned to my chambers, I would send Cecilia and Giulio out for a walk. It would be the first real autumn and winter in his life, and I had ordered several warm doublets and jackets for him and a little marten coat. But today, I mused as I lifted my face to the sun and breathed in deeply, he would not need a coat. Today was a perfect late-summer day, perhaps the last of the year …
The sound of gravel crunching under someone’s briskly stepping feet interrupted my moment of solitude. The person was approaching from the opposite direction, with a rapid pace that suggested a greater purpose than a morning stroll. My heart beat faster as I prepared for a palace guard to burst out and inform me that Jurgis had been found. I had scarcely had time to think when Maria appeared from around the bend. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion, and she was holding up the front of her red gown—a color I noticed she preferred—lifting it off the ground so I could see her silver satin boots and a bit of white stocking above them. She halted abruptly when she saw me.
“Caterina!” she exclaimed, all smiles. She seemed genuinely pleased to see me. “Where have you been?”
I made a quick calculation in my head. I had last seen her on Monday, after my first audience with Zygmunt August. It had been only four days, but so much had happened that it felt like months had passed. “I … I have been busy.”
“How is little Giulio?”
“He is well, thank you.”
She put her arm through mine. “Let’s walk together.”
“Oh.” I said. “I thought you were in a rush.”
Maria waved her hand. “I do a brisk walk every morning for exercise. It helps clear my head when I’ve had too much wine the night before.” She winked roguishly at me. From up close, I could see that despite her cheery mood, she looked a little tired, and the skin under her eyes was puffy. I wondered what she had been up to these last few days—and nights. Most likely, not anything I wanted to know.
“Did you hear”—she lowered her voice, bringing it close to a normal volume—“that a maid from the duke’s private kitchen was killed with poison?”
So much for secrecy. But at least the rumor was accurate for a change.
“I did.” I kept my tone neutral, or so I thought.
Maria stopped abruptly, withdrew her arm from mine, and took a step back. Her face assumed an expression of pretend shock as her eyes shone with excitement. “His Grace didn’t ask you to investigate, did he?” As I searched for a response, she exclaimed triumphantly, “He did! Oh my God!”
I neither confirmed nor denied it, but I admired her sharpness. On the road to Vilnius, she had told me she knew about my involvement in Helena’s case from her aunt Giovanna, an admission that did not surprise me in the least. And now she put two and two together so quickly. Or perhaps my role had already leaked out.
My continued silence posed no obstacle for Maria, who did not need a partner to talk. She slipped her arm through mine again and resumed walking, half-dragging me with her. “Can you tell me anything? Was she badly contorted? Apparently, her lips and tongue were blue and covered with foam, and her uniform—”
“Maria”—I extricated by arm from hers—“I am not at liberty to discuss what happened. I hope you understand.”
She looked momentarily disappointed but rallied quickly. “Do you have a suspect? They say the real target was Barbara—what a surprise!” She snorted. “What amazes me is that it took this long.”
“I don’t have any suspects.”
“They say the queen paid someone to do it.” She shrugged, implying that she
did not put much stock in it, or perhaps did not care.
“Who says that?” I asked.
“Oh.” She gestured vaguely over the tops of the trees in the direction of the city. “Some people I’ve talked to in the baths.”
“Well, I haven’t seen any evidence of that, so I can’t say.”
“The queen is too clever to have done it this way. If you ask me”—Maria paused briefly, then went on as I did not ask—“someone’s trying to set her up to take the blame.”
Opaliński and I had already speculated about that possibility, but of course I said nothing.
“It may have been one of the other kitchen servants!” she continued, her excitement mounting. “Word is they don’t like their new arrangements, and they don’t like Barbara because she’s prickly and short with them, behaving like she’s already grand duchess. And they have access to all the food and drink, so they could easily have evaded the duke’s precautions.”
I had already dismissed the theory of a disgruntled servant. None of them had the means to put together a plot involving a poison, and they stood to lose a lot more than they could gain if discovered. But that was not the case with many of the nobility. There was no shortage of powerful people who disliked both Bona and Barbara, for different reasons. The Habsburgs, for starters. Suppose they hired someone to get rid of the royal mistress by making it look like the queen did it, while paving the way for another Habsburg marriage? Using their own wine would be risky, but they could claim that someone had sabotaged them to spoil relations between the empire and Lithuania.
I wanted to share none of these thoughts with Maria. “It’s worth considering,” I said as I resumed walking, without linking arms with her this time. “By the way,” I added, changing the subject, “have you seen Zaremba? We were supposed to leave for Kraków, but now the plans have changed.”