by P K Adams
Zaremba shrugged. “I don’t care what he thinks, and I don’t care about his relationship with his mother. He’s a traitor who will trade our security for a permanent spot in a harlot’s bed, and the queen raised him to be that way.”
“For the sake of the country you claim to love so much, you must divulge the names of everyone who helped you with this scheme.”
He laughed softly, raising his shackled wrists and wagging a finger at me. The iron chains rattled. “You’re cunning, Caterina. You have a knack for spotting a weakness and exploiting it. It’s a dangerous trait in a woman. When your husband finds out about the trouble you almost got yourself into, he will regret letting you go so far away from home. If he is wise, he’ll never do that again.”
I bit my lip to hide my irritation and impatience. After all I had undergone at his hands, I refused to listen meekly while he pontificated. “Tell me who supplied you with the poison,” I said coolly. “Then I will leave, and I promise you will never hear from me again.” It was a vow I fully intended to keep.
He studied me for a long moment, as if considering my pledge, his gaze sweeping from the bottom of my skirts to the top of my headdress and back. It made my skin crawl and humiliated me, reminding me of the flirtation in which we had engaged. A flirtation that, on his part, was nothing but an act of cold manipulation. I gathered the sides of my gown, getting ready to leave, resigned to yet another failure.
“I’ll tell you for the sake of our brief friendship,” Zaremba said, causing me to pause mid-turn. “You may not believe me, but I cherished it—until the moment you found me out.”
My chest became so tight it trapped the air inside it. I was about to have the truth, with all its implications.
“An Italian courtier in Kraków gave me the poisonous powder.”
My heart sank, and a sudden chill assailed me. But it had nothing to do with the dampness of the cell.
“Which courtier?” I whispered. “What’s his name?”
“That I do not know.”
I stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“I’d spent only a week in Kraków before we set out for Vilnius.” His voice was emotionless, matter-of-fact. “By the time I arrived, I already had a plan. I had chosen poison because it’s a woman’s weapon and would be harder to trace. Once in Kraków, I needed to procure a vial, so I made inquiries. I let it be known that I was interested in something Italian, which would make it even harder to tie to someone like me—a man serving in Lithuania’s southeastern hinterland.”
I was horrified beyond words by his pride in his own cleverness, as he added in a boastful tone, “I was well prepared on that front.” But if he expected acknowledgment from me, he was disappointed.
“In any case,” he went on, “I was soon put in touch with a man who is known, in certain circles, to trade in the substances I sought. He is said to supply them to anybody who will pay.”
I had a vivid image of two cloaked and hooded figures holding a brief conference in the feeble light of a lantern, making their deadly transaction. “Let me guess,” I said, “you met him in some dark alley, and he refused to give you his name. You did the same.”
He smiled. “Something like that.”
“How do you know he was Italian?”
“He spoke like one,” he said. “He spoke like you.”
I winced.
“Of course, he wasn’t as attractive.” He chuckled. “Although he wasn’t bad-looking, either.” He screwed up his face in a show of trying to recall the man’s appearance. “Olive skin, small dark beard, black eyes women can easily lose themselves in, and dressed like a fop in those ridiculous puffy breeches.” He made a wide circular motion with his tied wrists, presumably to indicate the size of said breeches. Then he paused and peered at me. “Are you all right?”
I struggled to gather my thoughts. Could it be? “And you have no idea what his name is?” I managed after a while.
“No, but”—he raised an index finger with a mysterious air—“I know who he is.”
The painful pressure returned to my chest. I knew what he would say even before he said it.
“He serves Her Majesty. When I went to the castle with the letter of introduction from Captain Pretwicz—before my encounter with the dealer in poisons—he was there, hovering next to her chair. When we met a few days later, I recognized him even though his hood obscured his face.”
There could be no doubt. He was talking about Gian Lorenzo Pappacoda.
“Did he recognize you, too?” I asked.
“I don’t know. His eyes were drawn to the gold in my hands. He was counting it like an old miser as I held up my lamp for him. That was when I got a good look at his face.”
“Dear God.”
“Do you know him?”
“I met him once,” I said. “I didn’t like the look of him.” I recalled Pappacoda’s curiosity about my mission to Vilnius, a curiosity he tried to disguise under the nonchalance of an idle courtier. I remembered something else in his expression, too—wariness and a certain resentment. It surprised me because we had never met before, but now it made sense. My reputation for solving Helena Lipińska’s case was known at Wawel. Bona might have mentioned it to him or in his presence when she hatched the plan to send me to Vilnius to plead with Zygmunt.
Once more in the throes of grave doubt, I asked Zaremba, “How can I be sure the queen had nothing to do with this, if you’re telling me you got the poison from one of her trusted men?”
He lifted his shoulders slightly. “I sought him out, not the other way around, and the queen’s name was never mentioned.” Then he added, matter-of-factly, in an eerie echo of my words two days earlier, “I’m going to die, Caterina. I have no interest in protecting anyone.”
“When you were looking for the poison, did you mention to your contacts why you needed it?”
“I did.” Again he could not help the boastful tone, and I could see how long he had lived and breathed that plot, how proud he still was of it. “It would have come out anyway,” he added, “once the news of Barbara’s death reached Kraków.”
“Weren’t you afraid someone might take that information to Wawel before you secured the poison?” I asked, even as I wondered how many people would have worried about Barbara’s safety. Probably not many.
He smiled indulgently, as if explaining something perfectly obvious to a child. “We are talking about unsavory characters who do illegal things. They have many lives on their conscience. The last thing they want to do is attract attention to their activities.”
I suppressed a shiver at the thought that a man like Zaremba—a polished courtier and a distinguished knight—would mix in such foul company. Then again, Pappacoda clearly did as well. Who knew how many well-born, sophisticated royal confidants lead such secret, shameful lives?
“I had better go.” I prepared to leave, wanting to get as far away from Zaremba as possible. “I wish you strength for what lies ahead, and I hope you find peace.” I had said the same words to Helena the last time I saw her alive. I still had no more certainty as to what awaited us beyond death than I had then.
He did not respond.
As I walked to the door, I thought about the possible implications of this latest revelation and what I would tell the duke and Opaliński. If I revealed Pappacoda’s involvement, it would only strengthen Zygmunt August’s belief in his mother’s guilt. I wondered why I cared so much about that. Was it a simple matter of fairness, or was it because, as the mother of a son myself, I felt for Bona and the suffering that this estrangement caused her?
There was another, even more serious aspect to consider. If Bona had not ordered Zaremba to kill, then Pappacoda was a traitor. His actions endangered her interests, both political and personal. A servant who put his own gain above duty and loyalty to his sovereign had no place in the royal household.
I remembered the immediate dislike I had taken to Pappacoda, my sense that he was a calculating and devious man. Time ha
d proven me right.
As I emerged into the cool air of the courtyard, I took a deep breath. The atmosphere of the jail and the interview with Zaremba made me want to take a hot bath to scrub off the taint. But I consoled myself with the thought that in two more days I would be on my way home.
There I had one more task to perform: warn Queen Bona.
CHAPTER 19
Friday, September 18th, 1545
I awoke early on the day of our departure from Vilnius to supervise the final preparations for the journey. This time, we would travel under the protection of ducal guards, not in a merchant convoy. After the terrible events of the past nine days, I buzzed with excitement at the thought of home. I hugged and kissed my son every time he crossed my path and sent Cecilia to check our trunks again, brewing Giulio’s herbal mix myself.
The duke had released us to leave two nights before. On Wednesday evening—exactly one week after the attempt on Barbara’s life and a few hours after my last meeting with Zaremba—Duke Zygmunt invited me and Opaliński to dine with him. In the opulent surroundings of his private apartment, I looked through the windows at the moon-silvered ribbon of the Neris and trembled to think its waters might have carried me away if things had gone differently. While we ate, the three of us reviewed the evidence again. Regarding the source of the poison, I said Zaremba did not know the identity of his supplier, which was true enough, for I had been careful not to mention Pappacoda’s name. I added that there were plenty of Italians in Kraków with knowledge of herbs and their many applications, both salutary and harmful. But, reserved as ever, the duke listened more than he spoke. Even now, on the morning of my departure, I still could not say with certainty if he believed that nobody stood behind these murders.
* * *
The day dawned cool and bright, despite the unbroken layer of white clouds that hid the sun and gave the sky a bleached-out quality usually found on a scorching summer day or in the depths of winter. The castle clock tolled eight by the time our trunks were loaded and secured to the roof of the carriage. A blue-and-yellow vehicle pulled by four sturdy but graceful bays, the carriage proclaimed its association with royalty through doors emblazoned with the image of a crowned eagle on a red background with the gilded initials SA, for Sigismund Augustus intertwined on its breast. I had not traveled in anything so fine since I left Bona’s service to return to Italy as a young woman.
Giulio and Cecilia were already inside the coach. Maria climbed in behind them, a slow and cumbersome process because of her wide skirts, which fluttered in the stiff breeze. I waited, pulling my cloak closer around me against the chill and shifting impatiently from foot to foot. When I heard quick steps descending the palace stairs and a voice calling my name, I shielded my eyes with one of my gloved hands and turned toward the sound. The chamberlain was hurrying toward me. In his haste, he had not donned a cloak, and he held his cap to prevent it from flying off his head. He looked dismayed. My chest constricted painfully.
“Signora Konarska,” he panted, addressing me formally in the guards’ presence. “I have something to tell you. In private.” He jerked with his head toward the entrance.
I glanced at the carriage, where Maria had at last taken her seat, her movements making the cabin sway gently. I held up my hand toward her, signaling that I needed another moment, then followed Opaliński.
When we were out of everyone’s earshot, he lowered his voice and turned his back to the carriage and the guards. “You need to know that”—he lifted his cap and ran his hand through his thinning hair—“Zaremba killed himself last night.”
My throat went dry. I could not produce any sound, so I just shook my head.
“He was found hanging in his cell shortly after dawn.”
I put my hand over my mouth.
“I’m sorry,” Opaliński said. “It doesn’t seem like justice.”
My gaze traveled to the far end of the courtyard, where the jail was located in a basement. One of the small windows close to the ground opened on the cell I had visited two days earlier, where Zaremba had now taken his own life. But I was not angry, as the chamberlain supposed. I was, more than anything, sad. Now that he was beyond the reach of human justice, what I remembered was the boy who witnessed his father’s terrible death and was scarred for life. I had lost my father as a young woman, too, and I understood his pain. I also understood—even if I did not condone his actions—his fear that his father’s death would be rendered meaningless if Zygmunt married Barbara.
I looked toward the carriage and saw three inquiring faces. They were impatient to be on their way, as was I, but I could not leave just yet. Not without saying a final goodbye.
“Where is he now?” I asked.
“He’s been moved to the chapel.” Opaliński said.
The chapel was next door to the administrative building that held the prison. “I’d like to pay my respects,” I said.
The chamberlain looked surprised. He opened his mouth, then nodded. “I can take you there.”
I returned to the carriage and told my companions that I needed to do one more quick thing before we left. A moment later, Opaliński and I were walking briskly toward the chapel, where Milda’s body had been moved last week, and where her killer’s corpse had also found its way.
I had only visited the sacristy before. Now I went inside the chapel, whose interior was surprisingly light. Its large windows without stained glass admitted more of the daylight than many churches I had seen. Instead of underground, the usual location of such places, the mortuary lay behind a closed door to the right of the main entrance. The chapel was empty, and our steps echoed on the stone floor as we crossed the nave. Opaliński opened the side door. The mortuary was small, with only two stone slabs permanently affixed to the ground and room for perhaps two more makeshift tables, if necessary. On one of these slabs, a body rested under a shroud.
I knew that if I hesitated, I might not be able to continue, so I walked over to the body and moved to lift the shroud off its face. As I did so, I heard Opaliński take a sharp breath. “I have seen corpses that met a violent end before, you know,” I said with a note of irritation.
He looked chastised, but his air of misgiving did not lessen.
I lifted the shroud and swallowed hard. Shocked, I took in Zaremba’s face, swollen and red, his lips also swollen with a bluish tinge. The skin of his neck bore the unmistakable mark of a rope—a thick gouge of darker coloration running under the lower jaw.
I said a quick prayer for the repose of his soul. About to cover the grisly sight, I paused. How had he gotten his hands on a rope? I had not seen a rope in his cell two days earlier. Even that filthy mattress did not have a sheet that could have been torn into strips for the purpose.
I put that question to Opaliński.
He shrugged, but a small frown creased his forehead. “I’m not sure. Perhaps he bribed someone?”
I cast my mind back again, remembering Zaremba wearing only his shirt and breeches, no purse at his belt. Nor would the guards have allowed him to bring money into the jail. They would confiscate anything of value at the time of his arrest.
I noticed something else that bothered me. I leaned closer and peered at the groove on his neck. “Do you see that?” I pointed to red scratch marks clustered closely toward the center, around his Adam’s apple.
“Yes,” Opaliński said cautiously.
I considered the marks once more, then lowered the shroud so I could see Zaremba’s hands. His wrists bore purple bruises from the chains that had bound them for four days. I lifted the right hand, and, sure enough, there were small bits of skin and dried blood under the fingernails.
Opaliński gave me a questioning look.
“I’m afraid Jakub Zaremba didn’t take his own life.”
His look of puzzlement deepened.
“He was the one who left these marks,” I said. “He was clawing with his fingers at the noose tightening around his neck.”
Opaliński’s face dra
ined of color. “Are you sure?”
I covered the body. “Almost certain. You should have Doctor Nascimbene take a look at him to confirm, but I would be very surprised if he disagreed with me.” Then I asked, “What did the guards who found him say?”
He thought back. “That he was hanging from one of the bars at the window and was already dead when they cut him down. They were ordered to bring him here directly.”
I thought back on his chained ankle and bound wrists, which would have restricted his range of movement. He must have been released from those chains to “kill himself.”
“Does the duke know?” I asked.
We walked out of the mortuary and back into the chapel. “I informed him as soon as I heard, at seven o’clock this morning. He was angry at first,” he added, anticipating my next question, “then he said it will at least spare us the spectacle of a trial.”
And any uncomfortable questions that it might raise, I thought. Aloud I said, “It’s convenient then.”
He froze with his hand on the door knob, his eyes darting this way and that as if he feared we had been overhead. But the chapel was as quiet and empty as before. Too late, I thought about the accusation implicit in my words. People had lost their lives or freedom for less. But when Opaliński spoke, his voice was calm, if firm. “He didn’t order it, Caterina; he’s not that kind of man.”
“What about Mikołaj Radziwiłł?”
“Why would he do that?”
“To avenge the attempt on his sister’s and mother’s lives.” But even as I said it, I did not believe it. Rudy Radziwiłł was too proud to concern himself with someone like Zaremba. Besides, he would not imperil his career by going behind Zygmunt’s back to take revenge, which, in effect, would suggest that he had no faith in ducal justice. No, it was unlikely that Barbara’s brother had a hand in this.
That left only one possibility.