by P K Adams
“For all we know, he has left the city and is out of our reach.” The chamberlain sounded dejected.
“Why are you so sure?”
“You heard the boy. He was a foreigner, hired by”—a momentary hesitation—
“someone to get rid of Barbara. If he has any sense, he left Vilnius the same night.”
“Not necessarily.” I threw my head back, swept up by the familiar thrill of reasoning my way through incomplete evidence. “If I were the assassin”—I took another bite, chewed and swallowed, then lifted up the pinky finger of the hand in which I held the fruit—“I would have waited to see if my target was dead. I wouldn’t assume I succeeded just because I’d laid the groundwork. Things can and do go wrong—as we’ve seen.”
“Hmm.” Opaliński grunted.
“Speaking of laying the groundwork”—I really wanted to share my suspicions regarding Rudy Radziwiłł, but now that I was sitting just steps away from Zygmunt and Barbara’s private quarters, I became aware of just how risky that could be—“I had an idea that might be controversial given … the current situation.”
He spread his arms. “Everything we discuss is confidential. And if we have solid evidence, the duke will welcome any news no matter how unpleasant it might be.”
I doubted he would welcome this. But I leaned forward, lowered my voice to assure even greater privacy, and laid out my theory regarding Barbara’s brother. Opaliński’s eyes widened as I spoke. When I finished, he sat back and fell into a thoughtful silence.
“If true, it would be a grave allegation,” he said finally, shaking his head. “Grave indeed.”
“I know. And I have no evidence except for secondhand information about a ‘funny black beard’ from a peasant who spent the last week staying illegally at the palace.” I could hear my voice pitching higher with the frustration of it. “But it fits,” I insisted. “It would help protect the family’s interests, push the duke farther away from his mother, and, who knows, perhaps even hasten the marriage—” I broke off, but it was too late. What I said may have been common knowledge, but it was not to be spoken aloud, and certainly not in front of one of the duke’s most trusted men.
But Opaliński only nodded, the slow and deliberate nature of the gesture all but confirming the rumors. “What of the fact that the man spoke with a foreign accent?” he asked.
“That can be faked.”
“But why would Mikołaj Radziwiłł need to gather information about his sister’s eating habits?” he countered. “I’m sure he’s familiar with them, and even if not, there must be easier ways to find out than to stalk her maid at a fish market pretending to be German.”
I had thought about that, too. “I grant you it seems illogical. But what if that was the point? Perhaps he set this whole charade up to avoid any suspicion falling on him. There’s also a possibility he hired someone to remove himself even further from this. You know him better than I do, but already from my limited experience it’s clear that he’s ambitious and resourceful, and won’t let anything stand in his way. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“No.” Opaliński shook his head. “Not at all.” He let his courtier’s mask slip for a moment. “Radziwiłł is clever, cunning, and ruthless. He always thinks several steps ahead. Though I still find it hard to believe, I cannot deny that he would be fully capable of devising a scheme like that.” He exhaled heavily, looking unhappy.
“I understand how you feel,” I said sympathetically. “But we can’t dismiss this possibility simply because Rudy Radziwiłł is a great lord.”
“And the duke’s best friend, and Barbara’s brother!”
“I know.”
“If only you offered concrete evidence, Caterina, rather than an argument Socrates himself would be proud of.”
“At least I’m offering something,” I retorted, piqued.
“Your point is taken.” He raised his palms in a placating gesture. “I have to admit”—he shook his head again, slowly, in disbelief—“I find this murder most puzzling.” Then his face blanched.
“What?” I asked.
“You said earlier that if you were the assassin, you wouldn’t leave until you made sure the job was done.” I inhaled sharply as I grasped the implication before he finished his thought. “If you’re right about that, he’s still here—and he might try it again.”
CHAPTER 12
Saturday, September 12th, 1545
After that sobering insight, Opaliński summoned a servant to bring more wine, and we stayed in his office until well past midnight. We wondered what we could do to protect Barbara beyond her self-imposed seclusion and the measures the duke had already taken. In the end, we decided that Opaliński would inform Zygmunt first thing in the morning regarding my suspicions and our belief that Barbara might still be in danger.
Later, when our flagon was nearly empty, we fell into reminiscing about Kraków, where Opaliński had gone to university before spending time at the Faculty of Law in Bologna. It was a typical path toward a high-ranking career at court. Less typical—but not unheard of, especially in Poland—was his social background. The son of a cobbler, he had learned his letters and sums at a church school, but he would have inevitably followed in his father’s footsteps had the priest not discovered the young Opaliński’s talent for book learning. After tutoring in Latin and enough canon law, the boy had progressed far enough to apply, and gain admittance, to the university founded by the first Jagiellons.
I hoped the wine would loosen the chamberlain’s tongue and allow me to learn more about Zygmunt and Barbara. But whether by virtue of his education or natural inclination, he avoided answering my most probing questions without making his evasiveness obvious. I found out nothing new, and I reflected that the duke had chosen wisely by keeping Opaliński in a position that required trust and discretion.
* * *
I woke up later than usual on Saturday with a headache that felt like the iron band a torturer might tighten around a prisoner’s skull. I sat up with a groan. My body felt heavy, and I panted as I lifted myself out of bed. I was too old for that kind of drinking.
After using the chamber pot and splashing water from the washbasin on my face, I opened the window and stood in my shift in the cool morning breeze to relieve the flashes of heat I experienced too often these days.
The morning was bright but windy. White, feathery clouds scuttled across the sky, plunging the lawn below me into shade, followed by patches of sunshine. On the other side of the wall that separated the palace grounds from the river, the lazily flowing waters of the Neris sparkled silver. The stone of the wall glistened wetly, suggesting it had rained again overnight.
I was just closing the window when a knock on my bedchamber door made me wince as it reverberated through my aching head. I heard Cecilia’s voice and bade her come in. She handed me a note on a thick cream paper, which I knew right away came from the chamberlain’s office, although it bore no seal. I had seen a stack of them on his desk. I took a breath, hoping it was not bad news.
Dear Caterina,
I trust you slept well. I have nothing new to report this morning, save that I spoke to His Grace of what we discussed last night.
He invites you and your son for a walk in the gardens at two o’clock.
P. O.
I had more than enough time to break my fast with the cheese and bread left by Giulio and Cecilia from their own meal. Then I took my time, dressing carefully and pushing my hair into a hairnet of golden thread decorated with pearls, a gift from Sebastian upon our arrival in Kraków. I rarely powdered or rouged my face, but I did so that morning to hide the puffiness that stared back at me from the looking glass. I hoped Zaremba would not take it into his head to visit the gardens, and immediately scolded myself for the thought.
I arrived at the appointed spot by the syrena fountain just as the second clang of the tower bell faded. I was surprised to see the duke and his entourage already waiting. Anxiety seized me: a duke—who was also a king,
I reminded myself—did not wait for anyone, least of all a minor noblewoman he had met only a few days earlier. Whatever he had summoned me to discuss must be serious. Perhaps my accusation against his trusted advisor and his mistress’s brother infuriated him. I barely dared to breathe as I approached the fountain and dropped into a deep curtsy, straining my aging joints. I pressed my lips together to stifle a groan of pain.
With a quick upward flick of his palm, Zygmunt bid me rise, and I complied as fast as I could. “Good morning,” he said simply, his face inscrutable.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
In my nervousness, I forgot that Cecilia and Giulio stood behind me until the duke’s eyes traveled to them. I turned to see Cecilia frozen in a curtsy of her own with eyes downcast, and Giulio awkwardly executing a man’s bow I had hastily taught him an hour earlier. He had forgotten my admonition not to look the duke in the eye and stared at him with a gaze of mixed timidity, curiosity, and excitement. I was about to apologize when Zygmunt smiled—a friendly smile that brightened his face, if only for a moment, before the somber cloud descended again. I remembered Bona’s words that her son liked children.
“May it please Your Grace to meet my son Giulio,” I said.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, young man,” Zygmunt August said in Italian. “I trust you are feeling better.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The little voice piped up.
The duke turned to his attendants—an armed guard and four young courtiers, of whom I knew only Piotr Frikacz—and ordered them to walk behind us at a distance. Then he moved down a nearby path lined with slender cypresses, and I fell in step beside him. Cecilia took Giulio and proceeded ahead of us, also out of earshot. Thus the two of us were assured privacy.
Continuing in Italian, the duke spoke first. “You have a fine boy, Signora Konarska.” A wistful note entered his voice. He yearned for an heir, I saw. It brought to my mind the rumors that Barbara was barren, but I pushed the thought aside.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” I said. “And thanks to your generosity, he seems to be on his way toward a full recovery now.” I smiled as I watched Giulio skipping down the lane ahead of us, his joy at having escaped the confines of our chambers apparent in every movement of his slight form. Every few steps, he paused to pick up stray leaves that had already blown off the trees before resuming his capering.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Zygmunt said.
We continued in silence for a while. The sky had become overcast and the wind blustery, tugging at the duke’s Spanish cape and my headdress. I hoped the pins securing it in place would hold.
“Chamberlain Opaliński told me about your suspicions regarding Mikołaj Radziwiłł,” he said finally, in what I recognized as his characteristic direct manner. His tone was calm, but with a steely edge.
I had to speak carefully. “It’s only a theory, Your Grace, and one I didn’t formulate lightly. I admit I have no proof, and so that’s exactly what it is: a theory.” I paused, then added, “You have tasked me with investigating Milda’s death, and that’s what I’m doing. You haven’t put any restrictions on me, and I feel it’s important to consider all possibilities, however uncomfortable they may be.”
The duke contemplated this for a while. “I have no illusions regarding any of my courtiers,” he said at length and with an honesty that surprised me, “but with regards to Mikołaj, I’ll accept nothing short of iron-clad evidence. He was a friend to me even before I met Barbara. He supported me for the dukedom before most of the major noble families of Lithuania did so. He knows the strength of my devotion to his sister and would have no reason to test it in such a … brutal way.”
Thus Zygmunt August all but revealed his intentions regarding Barbara Radziwiłł. If he had shared his plans with Mikołaj, then perhaps the duke was right. Yet one of Radziwiłł’s ambition might well have decided to ensure that a man of so fickle and inconstant a temperament as Zygmunt’s did not change his mind, especially with the Habsburg envoys in town.
But I knew better than to keep pressing that line of argument on the duke without facts to back it up. My instinct told me that if I did, his patience and goodwill would soon run out. I also reminded myself that until I had proof, I needed to keep an open mind, for there were others who would benefit from Barbara’s actual death.
“Then we must consider alternatives.” I paused, and he nodded for me to go on. “Your Grace will forgive me, but”—I felt sweat break out at the nape of my neck and was glad of the cool wind. I had no idea how to speak to the duke about his private life in a way that would not be considered bold, impudent, or at least presumptuous. But speak of it I must. We could not avoid the matter forever—“your relationship with Pani Barbara has upset the marriage plans of royal families across Europe. Even now, the emissaries of Emperor Charles are here at the court, and although I don’t know the nature or extent of their mission, I imagine they also wish to ascertain Your Grace’s marriage plans.”
I had expected a sharp reaction but was again surprised by his quiet, almost resigned, voice. “Yes. They have come to sound out my interest in another alliance with the House of Habsburg.”
“Then perhaps they had a hand in what happened. The wine, after all, was theirs.”
“I summoned Ambassador von Tilburg last night and questioned him about the wine,” he said. “He swore on his honor he had nothing to do with it. He also vouched for everyone who’s part of his mission.”
“And Your Grace believes him?”
His hesitation was barely perceptible, but it was there. Still, he answered firmly enough. “They are consummate diplomats who wouldn’t resort to such heinous methods—or at least such heavy-handed, obvious ones.” His last words told me that Zygmunt was not a naïve man. He added, “I am not prepared to risk an international incident by accusing the emperor’s men of a grave crime without evidence to substantiate my allegations.”
Again, I could not dispute that. We walked for a while without speaking, passing our starting point and beginning a second circle around the gardens. The duke was deep in thought.
“Opaliński tells me that you believe the wine was poisoned in the kitchen just before it was to be sent up to Barbara’s chambers?” he asked eventually.
“Yes.”
“Then anybody could have done it, whether he acted on Habsburg orders or not.” I nodded. “So it proves nothing. My mother could have been behind this.”
I had been waiting for that, and the vehemence in his voice told me he favored that theory. Perhaps secretly he wanted it to be true. Was his hatred of Bona so deep? But it did not escape me that Zygmunt’s own caveats regarding the heavy-handedness and obviousness of the method could also be used to counter his suggestion of the queen’s involvement. For she was just as consummate a politician as any Habsburg, if not more. And, unlike with the Habsburgs, no obvious leads pointed in her direction.
Before I could think of a suitable answer—or a diplomatic evasion—the duke said, “Regardless of who masterminded this, we don’t know who committed the actual murder. Until we capture that man, we cannot decide who sent him, and Barbara will remain a virtual prisoner in her chambers.” There was deep concern in his voice, but also a hint of frustration. “She won’t even take a walk in the gardens under guard for fear of an assassin’s knife. How long can this go on?”
As we approached a bend in the graveled path, Giulio, who had been out of sight for a while, raced toward me. His left hand was full of brown and golden leaves, and with his right he held up a single flaming red one triumphantly, like a war banner. “Guarda, mamma! Ho trovato una foglia rossa!”
In his haste to tell me he found a red leaf, he ignored Zygmunt’s presence, and I was mortified. I bent down and spoke in a low, urgent voice, pressing the hand with the leaf to his chest. “I’m talking to His Grace and you must not interrupt. Run back to Cecilia. I apologize—” I turned to the duke and broke off when I saw that smile on his face again.
&nbs
p; Zygmunt stretched out his hand, and Giulio gave him his treasure, smiling back. “Why, your face is as flushed as this leaf,” the duke said in a merry tone I had never heard from him before—as if he had forgotten his troubles for a moment. He twirled the stem, making a show of admiring the leaf, causing Giulio’s cheeks to glow even more. “It’s a good sign.”
Again I could not help but recall the rumors about Barbara’s barrenness, and what they might mean for the duke’s hopes for a son. He must have heard the gossip, but he did not seem to care. He was willing to ignore the possible disappointment he faced if he went ahead with the marriage. A measure of his love, I supposed.
I took Giulio gently by the shoulders and was about to send him running ahead when we heard the crunch of feet on gravel. The steps sounded urgent. A moment later, Opaliński appeared in front of us, and, as if on cue, the wind died down, the sudden quiet ringing ominously in my ears. The chamberlain’s face was drawn, and although he maintained his courtly composure, it was obvious he brought bad news. An alarmed-looking Cecilia had caught up with us at last, and I gestured for her to take Giulio away. Whatever Opaliński had to say, I did not want my son to hear it.
Opaliński bowed. He placed his right hand flat in the middle of his chest, over his heart, a gesture that did not succeed in stilling its slight tremor. “Your Grace, I was just informed of another poisoning. Somebody has tried to kill Pani Barbara at the Radziwiłł palace.”
CHAPTER 13
Saturday, September 12th, 1545
“Barbara?” My voice echoed hollowly as my eyes went to the gray stone turrets of the neighboring residence. It didn’t make sense.
“Kolanka,” Opaliński specified.