by P K Adams
The Habsburgs. Again.
And as before, I had no proof. Only a hunch, a vague but persistent feeling in the pit of my stomach that there was more to this story than met the eye.
But I was done with it. The task the duke had given me was completed, and it was time for me to return home.
“I must go. The others are waiting for me,” I said, and Opaliński opened the door. We stepped out into the courtyard, shading our eyes against the glare of the white sky. “But you must convey my findings to the duke. There should be an investigation. Whoever did this has robbed Zaremba’s victims of justice and prevented the whole truth from coming out.”
“So you think he was silenced, like young Jurgis?”
“Yes. There is almost certainly someone else behind this. Someone whose identity might have been revealed if he had lived to stand before a judge.” Someone who might be Pappacoda’s paymaster as well.
Opaliński took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “Then he was working for someone?” He was breathing faster. For a moment I regretted leaving him behind to deal with whatever happened next.
“It looks like it. And protected them only to be betrayed,” I said. The fox was outfoxed.
“But it wasn’t Queen Bona,” I added. “There hasn’t been enough time for her to learn of Zaremba’s arrest and order him killed. Whoever did this is here, in Vilnius, and following this case closely.”
“Ambassador von Tilburg?” He looked incredulous.
“Not personally, no, but perhaps someone from his entourage or a hired assassin. I can’t think of any other explanation. If the duke orders an inquiry into who went into Zaremba’s cell in the last twenty-four hours and on whose authority, he may well discover a clue that has eluded us.”
We arrived back at the carriage. “Thank you for all you have done, Caterina,” Opaliński said as we parted. “And I’m sorry for what you have endured.”
I put a hand on his arm. “I hope you and the duke and Barbara will find a way to put it all behind you.”
“I wish the same for you,” he said, squeezing my hand. “I will write to you.”
“Please do.”
“Godspeed.”
* * *
When the carriage clattered through the gate and out of the courtyard into the main street, I exhaled, but I could not relax as much as I hoped. Zaremba’s death only raised more questions, and not just about the forces behind his actions. If he worked for the Habsburgs, why had he so doggedly protected them, even going so far as to claim that he relished the idea of using their wine so they might be blamed for it? I had searched in vain for a solution to the riddle since last Sunday, and it remained the only inconsistency in the Habsburg theory that I otherwise believed to be strong and compelling.
As the fine houses of old Vilnius gave way to the cheaper, shabbier construction of the outskirts, I pondered the uncomfortable reality of leaving behind an incomplete case. I had done everything I could to warn Zygmunt, yet I was aware—and the thought gave me a stab of shame—that my determination to depart before I fully recovered from my injuries was dictated in large part by a fear that I might be given a new assignment, one far more dangerous than the first. Zaremba had been a formidable opponent, but the Habsburg machine would grind me to a pulp. Against the considerations of justice, I had weighed—and chosen—my family’s safety.
Only one thought assuaged my guilt: I would soon meet with the queen. Alerting her to a possible Habsburg conspiracy carried its own risk—for just as Bona was believed to have spies in Vienna, it was an open secret that certain courtiers in Kraków received an allowance from the emperor—but I would do it. Although I had no solid proof, I considered it likely that Pappacoda was working for the Habsburgs—and perhaps other powers as well, if Zaremba was correct about his mercenary nature. The queen would dismiss Pappacoda from her service and banish him from Poland. As the de facto ruler, she would order an investigation, if not into the events in Vilnius, at least into the extent of the Habsburg network in Kraków in order to expose and dismantle it once and for all.
I put my arm around Giulio and hugged him to my side so hard he gasped and laughed. For the first time since I plunged into the middle of this case, I thought that something positive might come of it, even if the authors of the Vilnius conspiracy went unpunished. One day soon, I would bask in the glory of having contributed to ridding the Crown of German spies.
CHAPTER 20
Konary, October 1st, 1545
The journey back took longer, because Zygmunt’s men would not stop overnight at Bona’s estates. At times, we detoured for several miles to find lodging that belonged to the duke. The days continued chilly and overcast, but we were lucky: rain held off for the most part, and that would have slowed us down even more. At last, the ancient walls of Kraków, with Wawel sitting proudly on its hill, emerged on the horizon at three o’clock in the afternoon on the first day of October.
We reached Konary at dusk. I invited Maria to spend the night before going on to the castle, but she declined, although not without greeting Sebastian effusively, her eyes assessing him with the discretion of an expert. She chattered nonstop, allowing my poor husband only a “yes” or a “how interesting” in response, and I was filled with terror that in the flood of words she would let something embarrassing slip. When we moved off to say our private goodbyes, she kissed me on both cheeks and spoke in my ear in a voice that, for once, was mercifully low. “I understand now how you were able to resist Zaremba. You’re a lucky woman, Caterina.” I let out a mighty exhale of relief as the carriage rounded the corner of the driveway and disappeared from sight.
Giulio’s reunion with his father was joyful, and over the supper the three of us shared, I told Sebastian about Doctor Nascimbene’s diagnosis and his prescribed cure. The genuine happiness I saw in him—coupled with his observation that, despite the rigors of the journey, Giulio had filled out and had more color in his face—made me feel that the ordeal had been worth it. We talked about taking our son to visit our neighbors to acquaint him with other children so that, come next spring, he would have friends to play with outdoors. It was the first time in what seemed like years that we had been able to discuss his health so openly, and the first time that we had talked about a future for him. I realized then that we had both lived with the unspoken fear that Giulio might not have one.
After Cecilia had taken him off to bed, Sebastian and I sat before a lively fire in the main hall, and I told him the news from Vilnius. I had only managed to write him a short letter that Sunday morning before I set out for the baths where a casual conversation would set off a chain of events that almost cost me my life. I wrote again after Zaremba’s arrest to tell him I would be returning home soon, but I left out the details of what happened. Now I told him everything, from my visit to Zaremba’s chamber on the night when Milda had died to my discovery that his suicide had been staged to cover up another crime.
As I was recounting the events of that fateful Sunday afternoon and evening as Zaremba’s captive, Sebastian came to sit next to me on the settle and held me, gently stroking the fading bruise on my temple. My voice caught at times as I told him of the attack and the last-minute rescue by Opaliński and the guards. But it was strong and determined when I shared with him my plan to warn the queen about the Habsburgs and Pappacoda.
“I heard that name at Emilia and Leon’s house last week,” Sebastian said, referring to a gathering at our in-laws’ to celebrate the betrothal of their eldest daughter. “I didn’t pay much attention, but it didn’t seem as though the guests liked him. Someone referred to him as a ‘weasel.’”
“I can see that,” I scoffed.
“He sounds like a popinjay, hanging about to anticipate the queen’s every wish and to please her.”
“That’s the exact impression I had.”
He gazed into the fire, his expression pensive. “It’s strange, though. The men the Habsburgs have in their pay are believed to be high
ly placed. Like Stempowski—remember him?”
For a while we reminisced about the events surrounding the murders committed by Helena Lipińska. Stempowski—then the Grand Chancellor—had been the official investigator on that case, designated by the old king. He turned out to be quite inept at that task, but he did excel at promoting German interests at court. As such, he was one of Bona’s mortal enemies. One of her greatest regrets—according to Lucrezia—was that the evidence of his allowance from Vienna had not surfaced until after his death.
So Sebastian had a point—Pappacoda did not fit the profile of a Habsburg agent. Was it possible that Zaremba’s purchase of the poison from him was purely coincidental? But if so, why was he murdered? I rubbed my forehead, frustrated with how this case kept going in circles.
“Whether he’s in their pay or simply doing this unsavory work on the side for extra coin,” I said, “it behooves me to alert the queen. His allegiance is clearly elsewhere, even if it’s only to gold, and he shouldn’t be allowed near her.” I felt buoyed with optimism again. “She values loyalty, and the story I have to tell her will surely change her mind. She’ll send him away. Then Milda, Jovita, and Jurgis will get a small measure of justice.”
He cupped my chin in his hand. “I admire you,” he said. “I have since that winter of 1519. If anyone in Vilnius could have solved this case, it was you. I only regret not being there with you—”
“Don’t,” I said, touching his hand. “Neither of us could have known what would happen.” Gratitude flooded me. “You have always believed in me. It’s a rare husband who allows his wife to travel alone and conduct her own affairs. You have no idea how much I appreciate it.”
He kissed me softly. “That’s because you are no ordinary wife.”
After a moment, I drew away. I had a confession to make. Without it, any honesty and openness we would work to reclaim would be incomplete. “I can’t let you think that without admitting something I am deeply ashamed of.” I lowered my head but went on before I lost my courage. “Zaremba tried to seduce me when he realized I might be investigating the murders, and for a brief moment, I went along with his flirtation.” I was unable to meet his eyes, even as I became aware of how still he had become. There was an expectation in that stillness, and I knew that the future of our marriage teetered on its thin edge. My next words would decide its fate. I forced myself to meet his gaze. “Nothing happened,” I said. “If it had, I would never forgive myself, nor would I dare ask your forgiveness.”
The tension in his face eased, but he looked sad when he said, “I haven’t always been the husband you needed by your side, especially these last few months, but all I ever wanted was to keep our family safe and provided for.”
“I know.” I wiped the tears that were flowing freely from my eyes. “I know.”
“My goal, since we came back to Poland, has been to make this place”—he swept an arm toward the darkened window, in the direction of the estate buildings—“the home that you and Giulio deserve.”
I nodded, smiling through my tears but still unable to speak.
“It’s nearly complete,” he added, his mouth close to my ear, “so we can start again.”
* * *
Later that night, as we lay in each other’s arms, reacquainted with the intimacy we had allowed to drift away from us, he whispered in a voice that was already soft with sleep, “I can’t wait to show you around Konary tomorrow. I think you’ll like what we have done.”
I stroked his arm, then ran my hand down to his, intertwining our fingers. I raised them to my mouth and kissed his knuckles, tasting the roughness where the skin had been scraped raw and healed over during the months of work he had done alongside the hired men. “And the apples?” I asked. “Are there any apples left in the orchard?”
“Yes. The reddest, sweetest, most succulent apples we’ve had in years.” His voice turned slow and dreamy as he laughed softly into my hair, and a few moments later I heard his breath settle into the easy, regular rhythm of sleep.
I was home.
CHAPTER 21
Kraków, October 3rd, 1545
I wrote to Lucrezia the next day to ask for an audience with the queen, with no witnesses. Her reply arrived via the same messenger before evening, summoning me for the following morning. I left Konary with Sebastian, who was going to wait for me at his sister’s house, at dawn.
“Are you nervous?” he asked as our carriage wobbled on the uneven track.
“Oddly, I’m not,” I replied, knowing that he meant my failed mission to plead with the duke against the marriage to Barbara. “I’m lucky to be alive and back with you. That’s all that matters to me.” Then I added, giving voice to a decision I had made on the way back from Vilnius, “If I incurred the queen’s displeasure, I’ll accept any chastisement, then put it behind me. If she never asks anything of me again, I’ll consider that a blessing.”
But my defiant words masked hope that the news about Pappacoda would mitigate her disappointment with me. It might not be what she sought, but Bona valued intelligence; in fact, she paid men large sums to keep her informed on domestic and foreign affairs. I was about to make a contribution of my own.
“One thing is certain,” I said as we emerged onto the high road to Kraków, wider and less rutted, “I’m done with what you once called ‘the excitement of court life.’” I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the leather headboard. “Oh yes, I am.”
* * *
Lucrezia waited for me outside the entrance in Wawel’s inner courtyard, wrapped in a cloak to keep out the chill of the autumn morning. I was struck by the change in her appearance since August—she was thinner and more sallow. I asked about her health, and she shrugged her shoulders, saying “fine,” then looked away when she saw my skepticism. She had turned to lead the way up the stairs when a soft, mournful braying sound reached us. Without pausing or looking back, Lucrezia said, “That’s one of the two remaining camels.”
“Two?”
“Yes.” Her voice was flat. “One died at the beginning of September.”
We climbed to the second floor and entered the queen’s gallery. I could not hear the animal’s plaintive sounds anymore, but its echo stayed with me. Somehow, it fit the subdued atmosphere of the castle, the hush that permeated its ancient corridors. I could not help feeling that with Zygmunt August in Vilnius and the old king confined to his bed, things had slowed down in Kraków, as if the court held its collective breath and waited to see what would happen next. I did not doubt, however, that Bona was as busy as ever.
And informed.
When the doors closed behind Lucrezia and we were alone, the queen said without preamble, “You fell into the middle of quite a mess in Vilnius, didn’t you, Caterina?” She was dressed much like the last time I had seen her—in dark velvet and a white linen cap, and again I was struck by the contrast between the luxury of the gowns she liked to wear in her youth and the austere, widow-like style she preferred now.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” I replied. “It was very unfortunate.”
I had written to her a few days before I left Lithuania, informing her of my role in helping to apprehend Zaremba. It was before he died, but she knew about his demise, too.
“We must trust in divine justice now,” she said, and I wondered if she truly believed in it, “but I would have wanted to see restitution in this world, too.” Then she asked, a mix of eagerness and contempt in her voice, “The Habsburgs were behind it, weren’t they?”
I knew then that it was Opaliński who kept her abreast of developments in Vilnius. As I suspected, he acted as her eyes and ears at her son’s court. “It’s very likely, but there is no firm proof.”
A grimace twisted her lips. “Of course.” She drummed her fingers on the armrest of her chair. “Conniving and underhand, the whole lot of them—that’s how they build and maintain and expand their power.” The intense concentration on her face told me that she was thinking of ways to prove their culpabilit
y, but I doubted that even her agile mind could come up with one. Their tracks were too well hidden. The only possible path was to investigate Pappacoda.
“The poison Zaremba used was St. Nicholas powder,” I said, and she nodded grimly.
“Of course, they would choose that,” she said through gritted teeth. She was well aware of the slanders that circulated about her. “I wrote to my son and stated categorically that I hadn’t known this man Zaremba from Adam before he showed up here on Pretwicz’s recommendation. He took advantage of my friendship with the captain and deceived us both!”
I heard hope in her voice, and it made me sad. I was certain Zygmunt would not believe a word she wrote. Most likely, he would throw the letter in a blazing hearth without reading it.
“I told His Grace that Your Majesty’s and Zaremba’s interests weren’t the same beyond opposition to the marriage and that Zaremba wanted a war with the sultan—which the emperor does as well, but you never have.”
Her features softened. “Your loyalty is very much appreciated, Caterina. You are one of the few people I have always been able to count on. It’s a pity you didn’t choose to stay at the court after you married,” she said, as if the circumstances of my departure in the summer of 1520 had not involved two dead men and a kidnapping victim.
I did not know how to answer, but she continued, words pouring out of her. “There are few men left that I can confide in and rely on, especially now that Bishop Gamrat has died—succumbing to his failing health, poverino, on the very day you left for Vilnius! Do you know that he was the only one of my advisors and secretaries, in all my years here”—she swept out her arm, encased in a black sleeve—“who never betrayed my trust? Not once. And now he is no more.” Her voice thickened and she paused, reluctant as ever to show emotion.