The Boy Who Wanted Wings

by James Conroyd Martin

  “No, not today.” The green eyes flashed with some sudden change, some hidden emotion. “I must go now.” Her voice was flat, its honey gone. “Help me mount Miracle.” She hurried toward the stable.

  Aleksy followed. When he brought the horse out and helped her to mount, he looked up into her serious face.

  “Wait half an hour,” she said and gave spur.

  “I’ll teach you next Sunday, my lady!” Aleksy called.

  Krystyna was nearing the gateway and gave no response.

  “Next Sunday!” he shouted, praying her family did not return before then.

  Szymon wasn’t in the stable when Krystyna returned with Miracle and she was glad for it. In the kitchen Klara wheeled about with a look of reproval on her face, but Krystyna hurried past her, her own cautionary expression holding in check any comment from the housekeeper.

  In her attic room, she seated herself in the window seat, absently observing the drive that led from the house—poplar trees lining each side—to the main road. Sparrows flitted from tree to tree.

  That boy, she thought, that boy. Almost immediately it came to her. He was not a boy. Not any more than she was still a girl. At school she had flirted with boys—the cadets that would pass while she took good time sweeping the portico, the two grooms in the convent stable who vied for her attention, and Tadeusz, the nephew of Mother Abbess Teodora, who visited more often than his aunt thought seemly. She was the one always in control and she regarded moments with those boys moments of harmless, flirtatious fun. But, today, when she lightly touched Aleksy’s face, some strange, startling fear ran through her like a current. She assessed in those dark eyes a young man whose attraction to her ran deep. And so she had abruptly left and come home. There was danger here—for both of them. There would be no more Sundays.

  Sometime later, the sound of knocking jolted her. One of the maids was calling her to supper. “Coming,” she replied, glancing out the window. Summer was at its height, and yet the sky had darkened. A storm was on the rise.

  Seven

  Warsaw

  June 1683

  “God’s wounds!” While Roman’s curse was voiced at a normal volume, amidst the lively strains of the mazurka, the sounds of boots and slippers on the dance floor, the hubbub of socializing at the wedding reception, only Marek, standing beside him, heard the words.

  “You’re bored, Roman?”

  “Standing here watching the well-heeled of Warsaw parade and prance about? Yes, bored and irritated beyond imagination.” He drank down the goblet of mulled wine and motioned a serving boy over to refill it. “At least the liquor is first rate.”

  “We saw the public rooms of the Royal Castle today. I thought that was interesting, especially that secret passage leading from the king’s private rooms through an elevated tunnel all the way to St. Jan’s Cathedral. Keeps the great man safe, yes?—And this is no cottage, either.” They were in the ballroom of the magnificent Lubomirski Palace.

  “Bah!” Roman scowled. “Who gives a damn?”

  “Well, there are many pretty girls. So far I’ve danced with four. And you?”

  “Two—very proper ones on the lookout for husbands—sons of magnates their targets, no doubt.”

  “Won’t you marry someday, Romek?”

  Roman sighed, annoyed by Marek’s solicitousness. “Someday, yes, my lord brother.” He drank deeply. “But first there’s the—”

  “The Kwarciani and the excitement of the Wild Fields, I know.”

  “What if we’re not selected this year? I want to be there at the border, keeping the Tatars at bay.”

  “Cossacks, too, but the real threat may not be from the southeast. From what I’ve heard here in the capital, it’s the Turks that are the real threat and that they mean to march right through Europe like it’s their parade grounds. Just the same, Roman, I told you I feel good about being selected.”

  Roman harrumphed. “Your horse didn’t step off the path. Your lance didn’t falter.”

  “They were little enough mistakes.”

  Roman turned and with his free hand shoved at his brother’s shoulder, causing a bit of red wine to splash out of Marek’s goblet. “Big enough to lose the chance! And look at your father across the hall, talking away, reminiscing, no doubt, about the old days at his borderland fort at Bracław.”

  “You’re bitter.”

  “Chrystus, yes! All he had to do was point us out during maneuvers and we would have been commissioned in the Kwarciani by now.”

  Marek accepted a cloth from an alert server and wiped at the spattered wine on his hand and cuff. “Why is it, Roman, that sometimes you say to me your father instead of our father?”

  “Because it’s true!” Roman drank deeply. “My father is dead—killed by a Tatar on the Wild Fields.”

  “You were a baby, Roman. You didn’t know him. And that man across the way—our father—raised you.”

  Roman could not deny these things.

  Marek returned to the original thread of conversation. “Father has his reasons. He wants us to be inducted on our own merits. So this is what irritates you?”

  “No, do you want to know what irritates me?” Roman drank again. “I’ll tell you! That group over there!” He pointed to a group of men, most in military attire. “Damn Tatars!”

  “They are Lipka, Roman, here from Lithuania. They are Tatars and by all accounts as good winged horsemen as any. In a three-day battle Jan Sobieski held Warsaw from the Swedes at Brandenburg with two thousand of the Lipka lancers. After that, he won battle after battle and received one promotion after another—until he was given the throne. He sets great store by the Lipka.”

  “I don’t care what Jan Sobieski thinks—”

  “Lower your voice, Roman. You’re not being respectful. He’s the King.”

  “King or no—those men are dark dogs who kneel on sheepskins and pray to the East.”

  “You don’t think they can be Poles at heart and still be Muslims? They have been accepted into the Commonwealth and some have been ennobled for their service to the Motherland.”

  Roman drained his goblet. “Matters not to me. And you know as well as I there have been a good many renegades among them that have turned tail and fight now with the multitudes of their kind that murder and take Christian slaves for the Sultan. They’re slant-eyed devils.”

  “Roman!” Marek hissed. “You’ll be heard.”

  Lord Konrad Halicki sat at a richly draped round table, his wife at his side and friends all around. Placed next to him was a uniformed general, Prince Hieronim Lubomirski. The reception celebrated the wedding of the prince’s niece, Marianna. It had been a good enough excuse to bring together old comrades, Lubomirski had said. Konrad had served the younger man at the siege of Chocim, ten years earlier. He took note of the general who was recounting with great animation a particular skirmish. At thirty-five, his dark brown hair was receding, but neither it nor his dramatically drooping moustache had a trace of gray. The dark brown eyes, wide and laughing now, on the field were narrowed with discernment and decision. Konrad chuckled to himself, remembering the battle a little differently—but with victory the outcome what did a bit of embroidery matter? What mattered—making this reunion with military friends more bitter than sweet—was that the capital here was on high heat with talk of the Sultan’s ignoring treaties and amassing fighters from a dozen regions for an attack that would push westward. How far west? Charles of Lorraine had been named field commander for the Holy Roman Empire and Lubomirski himself had been given command of twenty-seven hundred soldiers north on the River Váh. Such were the details of a council of war the Holy Roman Emperor Leopold had held some six weeks earlier, at the request of Pope Innocent XI, who was calling for Christian nations to form a Holy League against the Ottoman infidels.

  Every
so often, Konrad turned to the dance floor and—between the ebb and flow of the dancers—caught sight of Roman and Marek standing on the other side of the ballroom. He thought how they might be drawn into a war as massive and daunting as the anticipated one Lubomirski had told him about earlier in a private moment. It seemed a far different and more deadly conflict than if they had been taken into the Kwarciani and assigned to manning the eastern forts against groups of marauders on the edge of the Wild Fields, Cossacks mostly, that seemed to follow the spring locusts westward, out of the steppes and toward the Commonwealth.

  He now leaned in toward his wife, who sat on his other side, and spoke in a confidential tone. “Zenobia, your son seems to be imbibing to excess.”

  “My son? You mean Roman, I take it?”

  “Shush! You’re too loud.”

  “And I suppose Marek is not drinking—or is he drinking milk?” The countess laughed at her little joke.

  Konrad forced a laugh, too. “I did not mean to start a holy war between us.” He took her delicately veined hand and kissed it. “If I say your son, you know which one. There—admit it.”

  “His name is of two syllables, like yours, Kon-rad. Now, where are they? I suppose you want me to say something to him?”

  “Best to say something to both, Zena,” he said, hoping to assuage her pique by using her diminutive.

  Just as Konrad directed his wife’s line of vision across the chamber to where the boys stood, one of the Lipka soldiers stepped through the opening between the brothers, inadvertently jostling Roman, whose wine splashed out of his goblet. Roman turned on the young Lipka. Words were exchanged. Roman, his face red as the wine, dropped the metal cup and drew his arm back, ready to strike. Like quicksilver, Marek grabbed hold of his brother’s arm and stepped out in front of Roman, face to face. Strong words and spittle flew between brothers. Roman dropped his arm and Marek turned toward the Lipka soldier. After a brief exchange, the dark-complexioned soldier bowed contritely and with great grace moved off. Roman glowered after him.

  Konrad, whose stout form was half out his seat as he prepared to push through the dancers, saw the situation resolve itself and so sat. “There, Zenobia,” he said, “there is the reason I will not speak up for the boys and have them hustled off with the Kwarciani to the Wild Fields.”

  “You mean his impulsiveness, I suppose.”

  “You put it delicately, Zenobia, as a mother would. I call it rashness. He’s capable of great anger. He’s all mouth and trousers. Who’s to say where it will lead?”

  “Would you rather he was all mouth and no trousers? Perhaps this rashness—or is it boldness?—will lead to success for him in the Wild Fields.”

  “Yes, and it could lead to a quick death. Quick tempers must be mastered. A good soldier demonstrates equipoise. And he needs to know that Tatars serve on both sides.”

  “So will you stand in their way if they are chosen?”

  Konrad would not take this occasion to tell her that they might soon be called to serve in positions far more dangerous than the Kwarciani face at the Wild Fields. “No, I’ll not interfere. Even the raven must release its fledglings to the sky.”

  Zenobia gasped. “Raven? What a mean thing to say!” Her stormy face materialized. “Am I then a scavenger?”

  Konrad’s mouth clamped shut, regretting at once his analogy. If he kept on, his wife wasn’t likely to speak to him for the duration of the trip. Her memory was long. He tried to think of something to say to sugar over his own impulsive—however accurate—comment.

  It was at that moment that King Jan III Sobieski was announced. Amidst much fanfare, he entered the hall. Chairs screeched loudly on the marble floor as those seated rose, the men bowing and women curtseying, while dancers halted in mid-twirl and the cleats of soldiers’ boots clanged dully in unison just once on the wooden dance floor.

  Roman and Marek had come to attention, as well.

  After an exchange with Prince Lubomirski and the others at the host’s table, the king began to make his rounds among the tables, heels thumping the floorboards and spurs ringing sharply.

  Roman scoffed. “Did you see how Father bowed and scraped?”

  “I saw no scraping.” Marek said. “Should he come by, what does one say to him?”

  “Well, lord brother, you might ask why he’s losing his hair, or why he’s getting so fat around the middle.”

  Marek dared a little laugh. “He is a man in his fifties.”

  “Exactly! I doubt that there is another Battle of Warsaw in him now. He bought that little village of Willanów on the Warsaw outskirts and has started a fine palace for himself. I imagine that will keep him busy. He’ll ponder over what statue of himself is to be placed where—and the like. And it will take men like us to hold off the Horde.”

  “I wouldn’t count him out yet. But I do wish Krystyna had come. She’ll be so disappointed to have missed the king.”

  Roman turned to his brother. “Why didn’t she come, Marek?”

  “You don’t know? It was her punishment.”

  “For what?”

  “For disobeying the convent school rules. You really didn’t know? The nuns expelled her. Why, Mother was furious.”

  It took a couple of beats for Roman to process this news about Krystyna, but before he could pursue it, Marek nudged him.

  King Jan Sobieski was but a step away from them. Roman searched for words of greeting. What would he say to the King of the Commonwealth of Poland and Lithuania?

  “Politeness,” Marek urged.

  Roman grunted.

  Eight

  Halicz

  “We’ll be taking Flash out to the rear corral soon enough,” Szymon said, “but for now there is more to show you.”

  Aleksy was staring in amazement at an impressive array of shields, single and double-edged sabres, daggers, and war hammers laid out neatly on the straw. “You’ll need to know more than how to use a lance, my boy. Once the initial charge is over, whether you’ve managed to impale some poor enemy soul or not, it’s time to drop it and go to other measures.”

  And so the morning ran long with weaponry lessons and then the riding and work with the lance. When they returned to the stable, Aleksy immediately looked to Miracle’s stall. It was empty. While that did not necessarily mean that Krystyna had taken it to Castle Hill, he took it as a good omen, noticing nonetheless that Szymon had processed the same information and that his expression had gone dark.

  Halfway to the castle, Aleksy met with an ill omen coming toward him in the form of a boy on horseback. It was Gusztáf returning early from his visit home, much too early. There was no time to veer off the road and having no wish to engage him in conversation and allow for questions, Aleksy spurred Flash into the quickest gallop he could manage. Nonetheless, he had no cloak of invisibility to cover himself and his mount so that despite the breathtaking speed, the groom likely recognized them both immediately. What would come of it? In a little while Aleksy reined in the horse, his sight undeterred from the castle, his mind praying Szymon would spin Gusztáf a good tale and somehow swear him to secrecy.

  The thought of Gusztáf vanished when he led Flash into the castle stable and found Lady Krystyna standing near the stall where she had placed Miracle.

  “You must have just gotten here,” Aleksy said.

  “Actually, I was just about to leave.”

  Aleksy hid his disappointment. “But now—you’ll stay?”

  “For a short while,” she said, moving toward the doors.

  Aleksy placed Flash in a stall and followed her, miffed by something in her tone. What was it?

  “I finished late with Szymon.”

  “Oh, I saw the weapons there in the stable.” Krystyna turned toward him, her hand shading her eyes from the sun. “I imagine he enjoys talking a
bout his old days with my father at the border of the Wild Fields. I’ve heard the stories a hundred times.”

  Aleksy resisted telling her Szymon was preparing him for service in the King’s Army. It was an unlikely possibility and she would see it as such. Instead he said, “I—I brought my bow today.”

  Krystyna was silent for a few moments, then said, “Leave it here for now. Let’s go into the tower again.” She didn’t wait for a response.

  Inside, she immediately started the climb.

  Upon reaching the battlements at the top, Krystyna went to look out one of the crenelles. Aleksy posted himself at the opening next to hers and stared out at the landscape, praying she would not say anything about killing Tatars.

  Faces forward, speaking as if to the air, rather than face to face, they carried on a long conversation, commenting on buildings in the far distance, arguing whether wolves were to be found in the nearby forest, and having imaginative fun with the formations of clouds. The better part of an hour passed. Then they went quiet for what seemed a long while.

  Krystyna broke the silence at last, still speaking through the crenelle, her words directed at the far-off woods. “I had not planned to come today, you know.”

  “No?” He directed his reply through his crenelle.

  “This is the last time.”

  “Must it be, Lady Krystyna?”

  “It’s a serious matter—my being here with you.” The words came as if disembodied.

  “Your parents would not approve.”

  She sent her little giggle out over the landscape. “No, they would not.”

  “Neither would mine.”

  “Really?” she asked. She laughed again as if the thought had never occurred to her.