Midnight Fire (A Jagiellon Mystery Book 2)

by P K Adams

  At that, I could not help but laugh aloud. Even I, whose acquaintance with the Radziwiłłs and with Lithuanian politics was superficial at best, understood that they were not so easily cowed. Lithuanians were a stubborn lot—a trait compounded, in the case of the Radziwiłłs, by boundless ambition, great wealth, and an unending hunger for power. Rudy would sacrifice his own mother for a chance to climb higher up the ladder. As for the duke, many courtiers in both capitals, as well as the queen herself, believed that Zygmunt would put his personal interests above those of the Crown any day, especially when it came to Barbara.

  Zaremba’s naïveté was stunning. He was no criminal mastermind, I realized, but a man lashing out blindly to avenge a wrong that no court or judge could redress.

  “What’s so amusing, Caterina?” he asked angrily. “Perhaps you do not fully appreciate the mess you have gotten yourself into?”

  “Oh, I do,” I assured him. I cast around for another distraction, and some instinct told me to bring the conversation back to him again. “Much more so than that poor boy Jurgis you throttled to death. Don’t you feel any remorse about that?”

  He paled, and I saw that my words had hit the mark. Earlier, he had spoken so casually about Milda’s death. Was it possible that he identified more with the boy, almost the same age he had been when his father died?

  “That was unfortunate,” he said through clenched teeth. “That was not part of the plan. But I had no choice. The boy knew about my encounter with his sister at the market, and I couldn’t risk him being called to testify before a judge, if it ever came to that.”

  “Snuffing out a life like that”—I snapped my fingers—“just to tie up a loose end.”

  “To protect myself.”

  “Wait.” I paused. “You said ‘sister,’ but Milda—that was the maid’s name, by the way”—I added emphatically—“wasn’t his sister.”

  “Who was she then?”

  “His cousin. He came to stay with her at the palace for a few days last week.” Then I asked, “How did you even know about him? Did she tell you at the market?”

  “I didn’t know about his existence until the night I had to silence him.” Seeing my perplexity, he explained, “After I’d met you on the stairs—it seems to happen a lot to us”—he attempted a joke, but I did not oblige him by laughing—“well, after I’d met you on Friday heading for the duke’s apartments, I had a feeling something important had transpired in your investigation. After I’d bid you goodnight, I didn’t go downstairs. I waited on the landing until I heard the doors of Zygmunt’s antechamber close, then went back up and hid behind a door curtain until you and the chamberlain came out. I followed you at a distance to the guards’ quarters, where again I waited. Finally you came out, along with the captain and the boy. The child was blond, like Barbara’s maid. I assumed he was her brother, or why would you have brought him in? I was afraid she’d described me to him, so”—he shrugged to signify helplessness—“I had to do what it took to stop him from talking further. I followed him out of the palace and to the White Swan.”

  The enormity of our inadvertent role in Jurgis’s death notwithstanding, I had to admire Pretwicz for having chosen and trained Zaremba as a spy. He had managed to avoid detection not just by me and Opaliński but also by the captain of the guards, a military man himself. And the guards he passed on the way as he followed us did not see anything suspicious about him, either, that would have warranted stopping him for questioning. In that, at least, he had outwitted us all.

  “But you weren’t wearing your chestnut cloak when I met you that night!” I suddenly remembered the White Swan landlady’s description of this outer garment.

  “Well observed.” He inclined his head in a mockery of gallant acknowledgment. “I didn’t have time to fetch my cloak as I followed him out, but once I knew where he stayed, I returned to the palace for it so I could hide my face under the hood. Then I went back to the inn to ensure his silence.”

  I fought down repugnance. “You should know that Jurgis didn’t know your true appearance,” I said. “Milda had only mentioned a ‘funny black beard.’ My guess is it was fake—you’d colored it before you met her and then shaved it off.”

  His expression turned sullen. “I bought a dye from a hag in the street who promised I’d be able to remove it easily. I applied it with a comb in an alley, and after I met the girl I sneaked into a tavern yard near the market to wash it off in a bucket of water”—he twisted his mouth in disgust while rubbing his fingers, presumably to indicate the messiness of the process—“but it wouldn’t come off. So I went to a barber.”

  “She also told Jurgis about the foreign accent,” I added, “but I foolishly assumed it was German, while in reality it was Polish. Still, either piece of information would hardly have counted as identifying evidence before a judge, so you killed that boy for no reason.”

  His face darkened, and for a moment he looked pained again. It was more satisfying than if I had punched him. But before I could relish the effect fully, my heart leapt at a sound outside. With baited breath I strained my ears, but all was quiet again; it seemed to have been one of those groaning noises that large buildings sometimes make as they settle.

  “How did you know you’d find me here alone?” I asked to keep him talking.

  “You’re a mother, Caterina.” He smiled with a touch of condescension, as if that were a weakness. “After our brief encounter earlier on your way back from the baths—yes, Maria told me where you were going this afternoon—I realized you had guessed the truth. And I knew your first instinct would be to protect your son. No more than ten minutes passed between the moment you disappeared into your rooms and Giulio’s and Cecilia’s hasty departure.”

  Of course. How many times did I have to be reminded that spying was in his blood? I could only be grateful he had chosen to go after me right away instead of harming Giulio first.

  Silence fell, thick and sinister. Zaremba studied me, his eyes distant and cold again. Time was running out. I cast around for more things to ask, and although there was something in the back of my mind, one last question mark, I could not think of it. Fear had taken hold of me again, stronger than ever. It was completely dark outside, the banquet must be about to start, but nobody was coming. It occurred to me that perhaps he had killed Rasa, too. I needed to get away from that chamber, with or without help, if I wanted to see another day.

  “Jakub.” However much it pained me, I again addressed him by his Christian name. “I want to join Giulio and Cecilia. They are waiting for me. I want to leave this town and forget everything that’s happened.”

  He rose from his chair and came to sit on the settle next to me, pushing aside the items I had taken out of the trunk earlier. He took my chin between his thumb and forefinger, and the only reason I did not pull away was because everything inside me stiffened. But I felt his touch on my skin—gentle but firm, as it had been earlier when he pushed me away from the door. It was the touch of a man capable of violence, if he deemed it necessary. He stroked my cheek with his calloused soldier’s thumb, and I shut my eyes tightly. I did not want to see his face, and I did not want him to see my terror.

  “For what it’s worth, I admire you.” His voice was strangely caressing. “And you are still a beautiful woman.” A few days earlier, such words would have given rise to a shameful stirring in my blood, but not now. My body was paralyzed by fear, although, oddly, my senses sharpened. I strained my ears again for any sound of footsteps, but although I could hear the wood creaking and the gusts of wind rattling the shutters, no human sound reached me.

  “Please let me go,” I said plaintively. “I won’t tell anyone.” I knew how hopeless it was to appeal to him this way. I would not have believed me, if I were him. He had nothing to gain and everything to lose from doing what I asked.

  “I like you,” he repeated in the same wondering tone as before. Was there a note of regret in his voice, or did I imagine it? “But I can’t let you reveal w
hat you know to anyone ever.” His voice became so soft it was barely audible. “Only one of us is going to leave this chamber alive, and I intend it to be me. I may have failed to kill her this time, but I’m not done yet.”

  His hand slid slowly down to my neck. My skin prickled as his fingers wrapped around my throat. Any moment now, he would start squeezing.

  My hands began to shake. “And how”—my voice trembled as I struggled to get it under control—“are you planning to get away with this?” My breathing was shallow and fast now, and I could not slow it. The panic I had kept at bay this last hour was threatening to engulf me. I could see my body being thrown into the Neris under the cover of darkness, reemerging bruised and battered the next day, downriver in some rural settlement, never to be identified. I would be buried in a village cemetery, and my family would never know what happened to me and would have nowhere to go to pray for me.

  The thought caused a surge of defiance I did not think myself capable of anymore. It pumped new strength and determination through my veins. My life had been threatened before, when I was a young woman and had only myself to think about, and I fought back. Now I had two children, one of them a young son whose health had begun to improve at last. I was not going to let Zaremba take me away from him as he had taken those other people from their families. I would not go meekly to an anonymous grave.

  With that singular goal banishing every other thought from my mind, I crashed my palms into his chest, a guttural cry of indignation rising from somewhere deep inside me.

  My earlier stillness must have put him off guard. He let go of my neck and glared at me, stunned, for a few heartbeats. It gave me just enough time to jump from the settle and run for the door. But the table and the blasted trunk stood between me and freedom, and that slowed me down, costing me precious seconds as Zaremba recovered. I had barely cleared those obstacles when he grabbed for me, his face contorted in fury. He raised his right hand and brought it down on my head, striking me in the left temple. The force of the blow sent my headdress flying, pulling my hairnet with it, and my hair tumbled out and spilled around my shoulders. I raised an arm to protect myself from the next strike as my legs buckled. The edges of my vision darkened, and I seemed to be looking at the world through a tunnel. My ears rang as if every church bell in Vilnius had begun tolling frantically inside my head at the same time.

  I do not know how long my daze lasted, but it could not have been very long. Before another blow came down, one that might well have killed me, I became aware of a commotion in the chamber. It took some time for my eyes to focus and for the noise in my ears to abate. Only then did I take in the scene that was unfolding in front of me.

  Two palace guards restrained Zaremba, each gripping one of his arms. Someone had brought in a lamp or candleholder, dispelling the low light. I watched Zaremba trying to wrench his limbs free, pulling and yanking, but the guards held fast. At length his struggle subsided, but they maintained their vigilance. He continued to tug at the restraints every so often, his chest working from the effort and his rage at being thwarted. The wild gaze he fastened on me told me I was the target of that rage.

  Still grasping him firmly, the guards looked toward the door for further instructions. I wanted to know who gave them their orders, but I could not turn my head for the pain. Any movement threatened the resurgence of the clanging bells. The other man must have spoken, for the guards pushed Zaremba forward roughly, then paused again. A moment later, Chamberlain Opaliński appeared, one of my scarves from the open trunk stretched between his hands. I had the bewildering thought that he was going to strangle Zaremba and wanted to shout in protest, but I could not produce any sound. Then Opaliński proceeded to tie his captive’s wrists behind his back in a complicated knot, and I closed my eyes in relief, my head dropping onto my chest with a stab of pain.

  Heavy steps shuffled out of the chamber, and I thought I was alone. Then I felt arms gripping me, a gentle but firm touch that made me whimper in protest as my scrambled mind imagined that Zaremba had broken free and returned to finish me off.

  “It’s me, Piotr.” Opaliński’s voice came as if from a distance through the lingering din in my ears. He lifted my head, his gaze full of worry. “What in God’s name happened here?”

  I tried to speak but could not. Had the blow to my head rendered me mute? Had I escaped with my life, only to be rendered an invalid? Hot tears welled in my eyes.

  “Let’s get you to the settle.” He braced himself to lift me. He was not a big man, and in my weakness I must have been a heavy burden, but at length he guided me there, putting a cushion behind my back. “Stay here, and I’ll find someone to bring you wine.”

  I gripped his hand, unwilling to let him leave me, but he misunderstood the gesture. “Better yet, I’ll get Doctor Nascimbene.”

  A sharp cry from the doorstep made me wince. Alarmed, Opaliński looked over his shoulder, then his face relaxed and he beckoned to someone I could not see. “Come here, child.”

  Rasa’s scared face appeared before me, and I almost wept in relief. She was alive! She tried to speak, but her lips wobbled too much.

  “Fetch the Italian doctor, then a pitcher of wine and some cloths and water!” he commanded. When she did not move, he gave her a gentle push on the shoulder. “Go!”

  “Zaremba …” I managed hoarsely when she was gone.

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Do … do not let him go …” The effort redoubled the strength of my headache.

  Opaliński nodded, but I could see that he did not understand the situation. His solicitous expression told me he suspected Zaremba had made advances I had spurned.

  I gripped his hand again. “He killed them …”

  The chamberlain’s eyes widened, and I blinked to confirm that he had heard correctly. “He wanted to kill Barbara.” I closed my eyes.

  “Are you sure?”

  I nodded. “He’s dangerous.”

  Opaliński inhaled sharply. “Do you have a piece of paper?”

  I reached for the sheet I had tucked into my bodice, the movement reverberating painfully through my body. The quill and ink were still on the table. He sat down and scribbled a note, then went out, and shortly thereafter I heard pounding on a nearby door, then again somewhere farther down the corridor. But the banquet was already underway, and no one answered.

  He returned after what must have been at least ten minutes. “I finally found someone to take a message to the captain to guard Zaremba closely.”

  Another ten or fifteen minutes later, there was a knock on the door, and Doctor Nascimbene walked in, followed by Rasa with a tray holding a bowl, a jug, and a goblet, and two folded linen cloths. Opaliński took it from her and sent her away, then explained the source and nature of my injury. The old physician opened his bag and pulled out some bandages and vials.

  Opaliński turned to me. “I must alert the duke to what has happened. I’ll be back.”

  “One more thing,” I said, heartened to hear that my voice was steadier. “I sent my son and his nurse away to the Lamb and Bell inn to wait for me. Would you send someone to bring them back?”

  “Of course.”

  After he was gone, Nascimbene poured wine into the goblet and added several drops of some mixture, then handed it to me. I took a few sips, cringing at the strong medicinal taste.

  “Who would have thought he was the one.” The old man shook his head as he dipped the cloth in the water bowl. “Such a decent-seeming man, a knight.”

  “We are all capable of evil, dottore, regardless of our status and accomplishments.” I flinched as he touched the cloth to my sore temple.

  “È vero.” He nodded sadly. It’s true.

  He put some ointment on the cloth and dabbed it onto my skin. It had a pleasantly cooling and analgesic effect. As he gently rubbed off the excess, he gave me an anxious glance. “So who was he working for?”

  I knew he feared the same thing I had—that it was Queen B
ona, Italian like us, who was the mastermind.

  “He claims he did it all by himself,” I said.

  “And you believe that?”

  I thought for a long moment. “I do.”

  He let out a small sigh. “So it’s over.”

  “Yes.” I made a weak attempt at a smile, and he smiled back.

  We were both wrong.

  CHAPTER 17

  Monday, September 14th, 1545

  Whether from sheer exhaustion or the three cups of the wine mixture Doctor Nascimbene made me drink, I slept all night and had no dreams, at least none I could remember. At eight the next morning, I was sitting with another cool compress pressed to my temple, where a dark bruise had blossomed overnight. I told Giulio I had fallen and struck my head. I was propped against thick velvet cushions on a gilded-frame chaise longue in a new apartment, a luxurious set of rooms on the same floor as Duke Zygmunt’s.

  The fire in the large, ornamental hearth blazed brightly as I told Opaliński and a scribe he had summoned everything that had happened the previous afternoon and evening. I also explained how the clues fit together, painting the picture of a murderer who worked to protect the legacy of a father who had given his life to ensure the safety of the nation’s borderlands.

  “There was no team of assassins, after all.” I rested my head on the cushions. It still felt thick and achy, but thankfully the ringing in my ears had gone away. “Zaremba acted alone. He dyed his beard before he talked to Milda, then shaved it off so he had no beard when he went to kill Jurgis. I’m sure the White Swan landlady will be able to identify him.”