Midnight Fire (A Jagiellon Mystery Book 2)

by P K Adams

  The scribe’s quill scratched softly as he took down my final statement. When he was done, Opaliński bade him leave us. As the clerk folded his portable desk, put away his writing implements, and bustled out, I marveled again at the rescue the chamberlain had effected the previous night, which was nothing short of miraculous. What brought him to my former chambers—the reason I was still alive—was that the duke had summoned me earlier in the day. But I left for the baths without telling Cecilia, so she was at a loss to explain my whereabouts. She promised to inform me of the summons as soon as I came back, but then forgot in the chaos that followed my frantic return and her departure for The Lamb and Bell. By suppertime, when I had still not appeared before Zygmunt, Opaliński and two guards went to my lodgings to fetch me. For that, I could not thank him enough.

  “On Saturday, after we learned of Jurgis’s death, I thought you might have been the killer,” I said when we were alone again, “or at least working with him.”

  Opaliński showed no surprise. “Let’s just say I would not have accepted any wine from you that night, either.”

  I lifted my eyebrows. “Queen Bona’s secret weapon?” I pointed a finger at myself.

  He laughed briefly, almost embarrassed.

  We were silent for a long moment, but it was a companionable silence, filled with happiness that neither of us need fear the other. We had become friends, the chamberlain and I, during this past week, and a betrayal of such magnitude would have devastated me.

  After a while, he asked, “Are you satisfied that the queen had nothing to do with it?”

  I nodded.

  “And the Habsburgs?”

  “If Jakub Zaremba was working for the emperor, he would have said so,” I said firmly. “A man going down has more to gain from exposing his master than protecting him to the end. It would offer at least some hope of saving his skin.”

  “Unless he’s afraid that his skin would then become the target of his master’s wrath,” Opaliński countered.

  “But at least he would have a chance to run and hide. Taking all of the blame will bring him nothing but certain death.” I still remembered the tales my late first husband, a judge in Bari, had told me about the defendants who came before his tribunal. “That’s why desperate men often throw accusations even at those who are innocent, yet Zaremba did none of that.” I spread my arms, removing the compress as I did, and winced in pain. “Perhaps there really is no one else.” I pressed the cloth to my temple once more.

  Opaliński considered this. “Perhaps you’re right. We searched his chamber early this morning and found nothing that linked him to a third party. The only evidence of his crimes is some empty vials that Doctor Nascimbene believes contained the poison.” He shook his head. “Pretwicz will have a fit when he finds out. Zaremba is one of his top men in Bar. This could affect the captain’s standing with the queen.”

  I shrugged. Bernard Pretwicz’s standing with the queen did not concern me.

  “The duke won’t like it, either,” he added ruefully.

  I grasped his meaning: Zygmunt would have welcomed the opportunity to accuse Bona of murder. I laughed then, a soft staccato sound at first, rising to a full-throated, unstoppable torrent of hilarity worthy of a madwoman. Opaliński watched me with concern, but did not interrupt me until I spent myself. I sank farther into the cushions, letting my arms fall limply by my sides, and breathed deeply until I was certain the fit had passed.

  Opaliński reached for the goblet with Nascimbene’s wine concoction and handed it to me. I took only a small sip, for it tasted strongly of valerian and I did not want to sleep all day. I needed my mind clear to make arrangements to return home as soon as the duke released me from my duty, which I hoped would happen today. In fact, Opaliński had announced that Zygmunt planned to talk to me this morning.

  As we awaited the ducal summons, the chamberlain helped himself to some of the bread and cheese a maid had brought for my breakfast. I had taken nothing, my stomach getting queasy at the very thought of food. We talked for a while about the confusing trail of crumbs we had followed over the past few days. It made me feel a little better that someone else had seen what I saw and failed to grasp its significance immediately.

  “You were right that the assassin would not leave Vilnius without making sure his victim was dead,” Opaliński admitted.

  “One of the few things I was right about,” I scoffed. “I should have seen the answer much sooner—”

  “You can’t blame yourself, Caterina,” he interjected. “In the end, you were the only one who put the pieces together. And if you made a few wrong assumptions along the way—”

  “A few?” I put down the compress again and sat up. “Let’s see—” I extended my thumb and was about to start listing my failures when the door opened. A palace guard stepped in and stood aside at attention, then Zygmunt August walked into the chamber.

  Opaliński scrambled to his feet and bowed. I wanted to follow, my breath catching as I tried to swing my legs off the chaise longue, but the duke put out a hand to indicate that I should stay seated. I fell back but remained upright against the cushions.

  He took an empty chair near the hearth. The room was warm, but he wore a cloak trimmed with sable. Despite his swarthy complexion, his face appeared pale against the dark cloth. The events of the past week had greatly strained him, I saw. But they had strained me, too; indeed, they had almost cost me my life.

  “Last night Chamberlain Opaliński told me what happened to you, signora.” Zygmunt leaned forward, resting his left elbow on a knee draped in a grey silk stocking. His voice expressed sympathy and concern. “I trust you are better today.”

  “I am,” I replied, wondering if that was true. Perhaps physically. “I am well looked after, thanks to Your Grace’s generosity.”

  “You deserve no less for having found the killer who violated the safety of my family and my household.”

  I did not miss the reference to Barbara and her mother as “family.” I glanced at Opaliński and saw that he, too, had noticed. I lowered my head in acknowledgment.

  “I saw the scribe’s notes. It sounds like this man acted alone.”

  “That’s what he claims, and we have no proof to the contrary,” I said.

  Tense silence hung over the three of us as Zygmunt mulled this over. “Then we must accept it as the truth,” he said after what seemed like a long pause. But he did not look happy—or convinced. Opaliński was right: the duke really wanted to declare his mother a villain. What would he have done then, I wondered?

  “Unless evidence to the contrary emerges,” Opaliński added unexpectedly, proving that he, too, remained skeptical. “I believe Signora Konarska asked this question already, but I wonder—in light of this latest development, does Your Grace still have complete trust in the imperial ambassador? He’s trying to arrange a new marriage with the House of Jagiellon, and in that he shares a motive with Jakub Zaremba, who confessed that he hoped for a more strategic alliance than that with the Radziwiłłs.”

  The duke’s eyes narrowed, which made him look more like Bona than ever before. “I trust him,” he said. It was the same thing he had told me on Saturday. Again he could not quite disguise the reluctance in his voice. He rose and began pacing the chamber. “I cannot risk a diplomatic feud by accusing Charles’s envoys of trying to murder my … trying to murder Barbara.”

  So Zygmunt was realistic enough to entertain the idea of Habsburg involvement, yet he was afraid to confront them. How like his father!

  He stopped at the window and gazed at the gardens below, their autumnal colors muted in the dull gray light. Then he wheeled around. “How do you know my mother didn’t order it? She hates Barbara, and she doesn’t care about my happiness. All that matters to her is her own pride—and power.” Though he strove to keep his voice level, I caught a glimpse of the spoiled, whiny boy underneath. “It would have been awfully convenient for her if this scheme had succeeded.”

  I decided not
to cite the crudeness of the method, which would so obviously point toward the queen; I knew that would not convince him. Instead I said, “Last night, Zaremba told me he wants a war not just with the Tatars but also with the Ottoman sultan.” Although not the most politically savvy person at the court, even I knew that was a policy Bona staunchly opposed. She had always pushed for an alliance with the Turkish empire, and those unfortunate camels at Wawel were just one proof of the cordial relations between Kraków and Istanbul.

  The duke’s deflated look told me he could not rebut that argument. I had another to hand, one that would answer a question that had been on my mind since our meeting in the early hours of Thursday morning. “Your Grace sent for me after Milda’s death, even though I came from Her Majesty. Surely, if you truly believed her to be the culprit, you would not have done so?”

  The corners of his lips curled in a small smile that quickly dissolved into his customary mask of polite detachment. “That night I called for you solely on the strength of your reputation. A few days earlier, you stood before me first and foremost as a desperate mother pleading for help for her son, and I found it hard to believe you capable of murder. But still,” he raised a finger, “I had to reassure myself as to your mission here.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “My mission?” Had he somehow found out what Bona had sent me to do on her behalf? Would it come to haunt me after all? I folded my hands in my lap, conscious of the unpleasant dampness between my fingers.

  “Your mission to seek a cure for your son,” he specified. “I needed to make sure that was the only reason you came to Vilnius. So when I invited you to walk with me in the gardens on Saturday, I ordered the captain of the guards to search your chambers for any evidence that you might be in possession of a deadly substance.”

  “Oh.” So he had considered me a suspect, after all.

  “I had no choice, under the circumstances,” he added, looking momentarily sheepish.

  “Of course,” I said graciously. “I had nothing to hide.”

  “So it seemed. Still, I had my chamberlain keep an eye on you.”

  Opaliński sent me an apologetic look, looking embarrassed. I felt a stab of disappointment, but I understood his position. When you serve the powerful, your will is not always your own.

  “I am pleased that Chamberlain Opaliński had no cause to report anything alarming to Your Grace,” I said, perhaps a bit too coolly.

  “No, indeed.” Zygmunt paced the chamber again. “But that doesn’t mean the queen had nothing to do with it. She has many people with not a shred of conscience in her pay.”

  “There is no evidence that Zaremba is one of them.”

  “Who supplied this man with the poison?” he asked, as if I had not spoken. “St. Nicholas powder was invented in Bari, my mother’s hereditary duchy. I am certain she’s familiar with it. And a poisoned garment,” he added in the same breath, “is another popular assassination method among the Italians.”

  “And the French.”

  He waved his hand. “The point is that it looks like too much of a coincidence. What did Zaremba have to say about that? If he didn’t get it from the queen or someone acting on her orders, where did he obtain it?”

  “I didn’t ask him,” I admitted. That was the question that nagged me throughout my encounter with Zaremba the previous day, the one I had forgotten under stress. “It’s crucial, I grant it. With Your Grace’s permission, I’ll go and talk to him again.”

  I did not relish the idea—in fact, the thought made me nauseous—but I needed to know the answer. Otherwise I would not have absolute faith in my conclusions.

  “You don’t look fit for another face-to-face meeting with him,” the duke said skeptically. “I can have someone else question him about it.”

  “I’d rather do it myself. He may be more inclined to talk to me since”—I searched for the right words—“we developed a rapport over the last few weeks. Besides, I think it will be good for my peace of mind.” I was not sure the last was true, but I wanted to hear the answer from Zaremba directly. I hoped that seeing him in jail, where he was powerless to do any more harm, would help me put this ordeal behind me. “I should be able to do it tomorrow.” I put the compress aside, trying to sound livelier than I felt.

  He considered my offer for a while. “You have my permission,” he said eventually, then turned toward the door. Opaliński rose to his feet.

  “Your Grace,” I said before he stepped outside, “I would also ask your leave to return home.”

  He nodded. “When you feel strong enough to travel, I’ll give you a carriage and armed escort to take you all the way to Kraków. I’m in your debt—we both are,” he added, his face softening. “Barbara left for Nesvizh this morning to recuperate in the country for a few weeks. But she sends her heartfelt thanks to you, Signora Konarska.”

  A lump rose in my throat, and I could only incline my head in acknowledgment. Not for the first time, I marveled at this complicated man who was generous, caring, and loyal but could also be stubborn, suspicious, and selfish. For all his animosity toward her, he was his mother’s son through and through.

  When the door closed behind him, I pressed my hands to my eyes. So much death and suffering. Could it all have resulted from one man’s determination to keep his vow to his father, or was there more to it?

  I had one more chance to find out.

  CHAPTER 18

  Wednesday, September 16th, 1545

  I stood in the square of bluish light that seeped through a small window near the ceiling of the jail cell, which was larger than I expected. I heard the clatter of horses’ hooves on the cobbles outside and voices calling to one another as the palace staff went about the day’s business. But in the cell the silence was so thick that those noises seemed distant, unreal. Somewhere nearby, water dripped from the ceiling, the regular plops on the ancient stone enhancing the eerie hush.

  Three days had passed since Zaremba ambushed me in my sitting room as I prepared to flee the ducal palace. The bruise at my temple still throbbed, a constant reminder of his attack. Now he sat on a straw-filled pallet that bore stains and smudges with origins I preferred not to contemplate. His beard was growing out, but even so Ostafi’s wife had recognized him immediately as the man who had come looking for a blond boy at her inn on Friday night. His shackled wrists and the iron clamp fastened around one of his ankles and chained to the wall kept him from approaching me. I stood beyond his reach, yet my heart beat nervously. I took deep breaths to still my anxiety as we gazed at each other, both of us defiant.

  “Have you come to gloat?” he asked eventually, breaking the silence. A smirk lifted one corner of his mouth. He did not look angry or defeated or penitent. If anything, he seemed satisfied. I saw at best a hint of disappointment—like that of a man who had done his best to accomplish a goal but was thwarted by circumstances beyond his control. Serenely resigned.

  “No.” I shook my head, only to regret the motion when the ache in my temple intensified. “There is nothing to gloat about. There are no winners here, only losers. A part of me still hopes that this is a bad dream from which I will awaken and laugh and be relieved. That you haven’t done these terrible things. But each morning I realize anew that’s not the case.”

  A shadow of emotion crossed his face, but it disappeared in a flash, and the smirk returned. “Is that what you’ve come to tell me?” He lifted an eyebrow, accentuating the sarcasm. “If so, you could have saved yourself a trip. I’m not interested.”

  “That is not why I came.”

  “Then why are you here?” he asked with a touch of annoyance.

  “Because there is one more thing I need to know.”

  “More questions?” His expression went from indifferent to slightly amused. “What now? You want to find out why I attempted to kill Barbara with poison, even though she had a servant to try all of her food and drink?”

  “That was not my question, but it’s a good one.” It was one of the many
smaller puzzles of this story.

  He laughed briefly, a self-deprecating sound. “Believe it or not, I had no idea. That was one thing Milda failed to tell me. I didn’t find that out until after I was arrested. I assumed she would take the tainted cup to Barbara, and that would be the end of it.”

  Fighting disbelief, I opened my mouth, but no words came out. They were not meant for him, anyway, but for one who was no longer there to answer. Had Milda, despite her simplicity and inability to resist the temptation of silver, withheld that piece of information on purpose, as a last vestige of loyalty to her mistress, or had she considered it unimportant, failing to sense the danger?

  The truth of the girl’s motivation lay forever beyond my reach, but Zaremba’s admission further exonerated Bona. She had an excellent network of spies throughout Poland and Lithuania and would never have sent anyone to do her bidding who was incapable of gathering the best intelligence. Despite his boasting, Zaremba was not as good as he thought.

  “Even to someone as inexperienced in the ways of espionage as I am it seems an elementary mistake,” I said, unable to deny myself the satisfaction of pointing that out.

  His face darkened, but then he spread his palms, and because his wrists were bound together, he looked like a priest pointing to the host during Mass. “I accept that. I failed, and I’m paying the price. Anything else?” He assumed an air of indifferent expectation, like a bored person who might as well engage in conversation for lack of anything better to do.

  I suppressed my irritation; this man who had almost killed me did not even have the decency to talk to me respectfully. “Who gave you the poison you put in Barbara’s wine?” I asked. “You say you acted alone, but the duke believes his mother sent you. Your information will clear up that misconception.”