Midnight Fire (A Jagiellon Mystery Book 2)

by P K Adams

  “Very good, Caterina.” He smirked.

  “I wish it had occurred to me,” I went on, ignoring him, “that you wanted to leave for Kraków on Friday rather than Saturday so as to get out of Vilnius as soon as possible—but only after you’d had a chance to assure yourself that your assassination was successful. Yes, the evidence was there all along”—I breathed out in frustration—“but I didn’t realize what it meant until only a few hours ago, when Maria told me you were not married.”

  Zaremba made another derisive sound. “The flesh is weak. Had I not succumbed to her charms, I doubt you would have ever found me out.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” I said defiantly, my pulse quickening again. I had to keep him talking. Perhaps Maria would stop by for a visit and alert the guards to my plight. I also had to avoid the temptation to look at the door, which Zaremba had inadvertently left unlocked.

  “Who are you working for?” I asked before he had a chance to speak again. “Queen Bona?” My voice trembled. If Zaremba’s actions were a betrayal of our budding friendship, Bona’s involvement would be doubly so. For what kind of a person would exploit the desperation of the mother of a sick child as a cover for an assassination plot?

  Zaremba blinked, seemingly surprised, then shook his head.

  A small relief lessened the pressure in my chest, before I reminded myself that I could not trust anything he said. “The Habsburgs then?”

  He shook his head again, faint amusement curling the corners of his lips.

  Frustration tugged at me. “Don’t tell me the Hohenzollerns put you up to it,” I blurted out in disbelief.

  He laughed then. “No, Caterina, nobody put me up to it.” His laughter died suddenly, and an ominous cloud crossed his face. “I was working alone.”

  I stared at him.

  “I see you don’t believe me.”

  That was not an option I had ever considered. I ran frantically through all the known facts again and found myself unable to decide whether he was telling the truth. “So the Spanish wine the ambassador sent you was not for the purpose of poisoning Barbara?” I asked, incredulous.

  “He really did send it to me as a gesture of friendship, nothing more.” Zaremba looked amused. “Although I’m not so vain as to believe that my personal charm was responsible for such generosity. Rather, I suspect it was my work for Captain Pretwicz, who has German blood and has been an advocate for the Habsburgs in Kraków. It’s also true,” he added, “that von Tilburg likes to share his wine, which worked perfectly for my purposes as a cover.” He paused, then corrected himself, “Almost worked.”

  Thinking back on it, it made sense. On Wednesday night—tired and rough-looking because he had just committed a murder—Zaremba told me the Germans had sent him a flagon. He must have used half of it to replace and poison the duke’s wine, and he was deep into drinking the other half when I arrived at his chamber. He offered me less than half a cup—and only after I asked him—not because he wanted me gone, but because he had little left. He may also have worried that I might link him to Milda’s death through the wine, so he made sure to mention the ambassador’s habit of sharing the drink with others.

  “How did you manage to bring the wine down to the kitchen without being seen by anyone?”

  “You forget that I’m trained in the art of clandestine operations.” His face assumed a look of wounded pride, although he may have been mocking me. “I’ve spent years tracking the enemy through woods and grasslands. I know how to move quietly. Compared with the vastness of the borderland steppe, this palace”—he waved his hand with a deprecating gesture—“with a few snoozing guards, presented no challenge, especially after dark.”

  The satisfaction of having guessed that last part early on was again clouded by the fact that I should have seen him as a suspect sooner. When I was watching the bonfire ritual at Gornitsa, I had not heard him approach until he was right behind me. He moved soundlessly, like a cat, through that dry autumn grass that would have rustled under anybody else’s feet.

  “Didn’t you care that the duke might have drunk that wine, too?”

  “As a spy,” he replied with a touch of impatience, as if annoyed at having to repeat himself, “I know how to gather information. The duke doesn’t drink after seven o’clock, except at a banquet. My goal would have been easily accomplished had that silly girl not decided to help herself to the wine while she was at it.”

  I felt the stab of anger at the callous way in which he referred to Milda’s death, but I swallowed it down. There was no need to ask how he had found out that Milda was Barbara’s kitchen maid: his espionage training and a few well-placed coins.

  “Why did you do it?” I asked him then. “Kill all these people, try to kill Barbara?”

  His reply came without hesitation. It was as if he welcomed the opportunity to unburden himself. “It’s an open secret that the duke plans to marry Barbara as soon as the old king is dead, which won’t be long. It’s a reckless scheme”—he repeated what he had already told me at Gornitsa—“that will bring no beneficial alliance to strengthen our borders, especially in the south where we are constantly threatened by Tatars.” He fell silent, although I had a distinct sense that he wanted to say more.

  “Queen Bona would agree with you on that,” I said cautiously.

  “Probably, but she did not direct me,” he said emphatically, “if that’s what you’re implying. I already told you: nobody did. I’d planned the whole thing myself even before Captain Pretwicz selected me to escort you to Vilnius. The queen requested one of his men, someone from outside court circles, to protect you on this sensitive mission, and I volunteered.” He smiled briefly, then grew somber again, “I really hoped you would succeed in persuading the duke to break it off with Barbara and my intervention wouldn’t be necessary—”

  He broke off as voices rang out in the corridor. Hope flared in my chest like a bright lamp, and I felt a scream forming in my throat. But before I could utter it, Zaremba put a finger to his mouth and bent down to reach into his boot, his eyes never leaving me. I gazed fascinated as he plunged his hand inside and withdrew the hilt of a small dagger. He did not pull the weapon out fully, just enough for me to catch a glimpse of a steely, cold blade. The catlike gesture and his gaze were eloquent in the warning they conveyed. The sound died in my throat. We sat quietly, listening to a group of women laughing and talking as they passed by my door, until their voices grew fainter and eventually faded. Then it felt like we were alone in the castle.

  But even as my hope of a rescue waned with each receding footstep, Zaremba’s last statement echoed in my mind. I felt a touch of pity for him, which disconcerted me. He was not a cold-blooded murderer—or at least had not been from the beginning. I could even credit him with noble intentions. But I needed to keep any sympathy at bay, because it might lead me to blame myself even more for the loss of three lives as a result of the failure of my mission. I knew I was capable of that; it had happened before, with the murders at Wawel. I needed to remind myself that I was not the one who had slipped poison into wine and soaked a ruff in a deadly substance. He had, and he must pay for it. If I could find a way to get out of this chamber alive, I would ensure he did.

  He had fallen into a pensive mood, his gaze straying to the window, where the drizzle had thickened and become a kind of mist. Soon, it would be dark. My eyes went to the door, and I forced myself to look away. I needed to buy more time.

  “After you murdered the kitchen maid, you still tried to get close to me.” It took me a moment to form the words, such was the humiliation I felt. “So you could seduce me.” He turned his gaze from the window, and I met it. “I’ve been wondering why, and I think it was so you could keep up to date on the investigation while deflecting any suspicion from yourself.” The memory of his lips just inches from mine rose unbidden, and I could hear his voice in my ear, calm and even, not thickened with emotion or desire. It was all a ruse, and it nearly led me to make an unforgivable mistake.r />
  I felt a sudden, desperate urge to go home to Sebastian, to confess everything and beg his forgiveness. Would I ever see him again? I dared not think about that, lest my self-control slip entirely. Instead I said, enunciating every word, “You hoped to use my feelings to cloud my judgment, so I would be less likely to suspect you.” I could not keep scorn from my voice, but also a certain satisfaction. Knowing that I had resisted him was a small blessing in this dire situation.

  “I had no idea you were the one who solved Helena Lipińska’s case all those years ago until Maria told me about it the day we arrived in Vilnius,” he said. I remembered him staring at me with unease after last Sunday’s banquet, our first evening at the palace, and now I understood why. “I must confess, it was rather inconvenient, but I couldn’t back out. Instead I came up with a contingency plan.”

  I looked away in disgust. He had tried to use me, just as Bona had used me. I was nothing but a pawn to them. Yet it also occurred to me that he could have killed me at any time during the past week. Perhaps he had kept a discreet eye on me and, seeing how stumped I was, did not think much of my chances of unmasking him. That he turned out to be wrong was bittersweet, for I had played into his hands and given him this one last opportunity to dispose of me.

  Outside, the light was fading, and mist clung to the windows, intensifying my sense of entrapment and isolation. The old scar on my arm twinged. In another hour it would be suppertime, palace residents and guests heading for the Sunday banquet, and Rasa would arrive for her evening chores. If I lived that long, would she be able to help me, or would she become another victim? How many more lives would Zaremba’s folly consume?

  “We need light,” I said. “I can get candles out of the trunk.”

  He hesitated. “But only one.” Then, before I had the chance to move, he rose, placing himself between me and the door. “I’ll get it.”

  “They are all the way at the bottom,” I said.

  He went over and dragged the trunk across the floor toward me, then gestured for me to look. I removed a few items from the top, placing them on the settle next to me, then plunged my hand in and rummaged around until I found it—the thickest of our remaining candles, with the most wax left on it.

  I lighted it, willing my hands not to shake, and placed it on the table between us. One glance at Zaremba’s face in the new light told me that he was getting ready to end our encounter, but I also saw that despite his bluster he had not yet gathered sufficient courage to take that step. My reprieve would not last long, for he was a desperate man. I needed to keep his mind away from that path.

  “Can you tell me the truth?” I asked quietly.

  His head whipped up. “The truth about what?” His eyes narrowed. “You have already guessed the truth, and I have confessed everything to you.”

  “Not everything. I want to know your true motivations, the real reason behind these murders,” I pressed. “Many people aren’t happy with this affair, but you are the only one who has killed to stop it. Surely, your concern about border security wasn’t sufficient to disregard the laws of God and man in this way.”

  I held my breath. I had taken a risk with my question: it would either infuriate him and hasten my end, or it would cause him to open up to me. I had already glimpsed the weight of this burden on his conscience, or whatever was left of it.

  After some moments, the surprise melted from his face, and his gaze turned inward. Silently, he stroked his chin, where a new reddish-blond beard was growing, and there was a sadness about him I had not seen before. He was revisiting something painful.

  “My father was a knight who had dedicated his life to the defense of the southern border,” he said at length, and my mind traveled back to that night at Gornitsa. That was the first time he had mentioned his father’s service, and it had brought up an unexpected emotion. Now I was about to learn why. “I grew up moving with him and my mother from one posting to another, living in a succession of garrison towns,” he continued. “It was a difficult life, full of danger and constant change, but I loved it because I was proud of my father’s role in keeping the encroaching Moldovans and Tatars at bay.” He paused, and the muscles of his jaw worked. “In the summer of 1522, we’d been living in a small outpost, an old wooden enclosure in the Vinnytsia region, for several peaceful months. It wasn’t a place where anything was expected to happen, but Mikołaj Firlej, who was Crown Hetman at the time, liked to rotate his troops among the different locations as a signal to potential attackers that we had a strong defense.”

  He hunched and lowered his head. His fist closed around a section of his chain mail, and for a moment I thought the iron links would snap. But then he let go, smoothing them into place with a sharp gesture. He took a deep breath and went on, “One night we were awakened by a sudden clash of weapons; screams of men, women, and horses; and the otherworldly howls of a band of raiders who had burst out of the surrounding forest. My father didn’t even have time to put on his armor; he just ran out in his shirt with a sword in his hand, yelling for us to stay inside our quarters. My mother fell to her knees and started to pray, while I slipped out and climbed the stairs to the top of the inner wall. I could see that the invaders had already broken into the outer ward, cutting down any living creature in their path with their curved swords.”

  From his gaze, now fixed somewhere on the wall behind me, I could guess that the hellish scene was playing out in front of him again. Across the span of more than twenty years, the terrified youth was recounting the horror he had witnessed that night. “The swordsmen were backed by archers whose skill was such that they could shoot with precision from atop galloping horses. Many of the archers were shooting flaming arrows. That was the key to their success—there weren’t enough of them to defeat us on their own, but the old wood of the central tower and the outer buildings was like a tinderbox, and the arrows set it ablaze in no time.

  “I ran back to our house, but it was already on fire. I tried to find my father, but he was in the tower with the other defenders, and soon the damage to the wall was such that gaps began to open, through which the Tatars poured into the inner courtyard. I ran for one of the gaps to escape, but a raider slashed at me with his sword.” He absently fingered the scar that ran from his temple to his collarbone. “I fell and he moved on, assuming I was dead, but I crawled through the ruins and out into the safety of the forest. From there, I watched the fire against the midnight sky as it consumed the outpost and burned it to the ground.

  “At dawn the Tatars rounded up the few survivors, mainly women and children, tied them together with ropes, and marched them away. I’d heard enough stories to know that those who managed to live through the journey would be given as slaves to the khan or his cronies, or sold off to the Turks in Istanbul. It was then that I made a vow to my parents—whose bodies were still smoldering among the ashes—that I would devote my life to protecting our borders from those barbarians.”

  I shivered, and not just because of the chill in the unheated chamber. “What a terrible thing to have lived through at such a young age.” I said through the tightness in my throat. “Nobody should see their parents die like that.”

  He buried his face in his hands. When he looked up again, his eyes were blazing. “And I have kept my promise!” He banged a clenched fist on his chest, as if he were in a confessional. “I joined the defense forces as soon as I turned sixteen the following spring and eventually came to serve under Bernard Pretwicz. I moved with him to Bar when the queen made him starosta there. I have served with him for years in defense of that border. I’ve been wounded, almost killed twice, but that region has never been safer. But now”—his voice cracked—“all this loss and work and sacrifice is for naught because Bona’s pampered milksop of a son has taken a fancy to that Radziwiłł harlot.”

  I stared at him. My horror at what he had experienced as a youth mingled with equal horror at the pain he had inflicted on others. Yet I saw how the past haunted him. The words had poured
out of him. He must have thought them, perhaps even spoken them to himself during sleepless nights, countless times, until they became an obsession, an incantation that had overtaken reason and led him to hatch this disastrous plot.

  “Destroying Barbara is no guarantee that the duke will marry a suitable princess,” I pointed out.

  “But at least there would be hope!” Zaremba raised his voice in desperation. “Perhaps someone can find a way to persuade him to seek an alliance to take on those savages—and the Turks, while he’s at it, instead of bankrupting the country by paying them off! Do you know that the new treaty with Khan Sahib Girei has cost the treasury two thousand red złotys and a further thirteen thousand in luxury cloth? Do you?”

  I had no idea but also no reason to doubt what he said. That kind of appeasement was in line with Zygmunt’s personality and ruling style. Yet foreign policy did not matter to me right then. I was tempted to refute Zaremba’s self-justification, but in the end I refrained. I recognized the futility of arguing with him. He was a grown man, set in his ways and so wrapped up in his cause, which he approached with the fervor worthy of a religious zealot, that I would only waste my breath on such moralizing.

  “I understand why you fear for your country’s future,” I said, choosing my words with care. “I even understand why you might see Barbara as a threat to the promise you made your parents. But I cannot see any reason why you wanted to kill her mother as well.”

  “It’s simple, really.” He threw his head back, as if to shake off the weight of the dredged-up memories. “I had failed when it came to the daughter, and the duke boosted the already tight security around her. I would have had to abandon the project altogether, but fortunately I was prepared.” I winced at the word “project” used to describe a murder plan, but he did not notice. “I’d brought the poisoned ruff with me as an alternative means to kill Barbara, and now decided to use it against her mother. It was easy. I only had to carefully repaint the pink box in which I kept it, and which you had accidentally seen in my chamber. Slipping it into the Radziwiłł palace was no challenge, either. But to answer your question”—he held out his palms in an explanatory gesture—“Kolanka’s death was supposed to intimidate the family so that, in fear for their lives, they would return to their country estate and leave Zygmunt alone to focus on what’s important for Poland-Lithuania.”