“Now, our business is done.” Count Halicki stood. The meeting was over. “The departure is set for Thursday. You’ll have one of our steppe ponies, Aleksy. Perhaps Marek will allow you to do the choosing.”
“I’ve already chosen it, Father.”
Roman again. Aleksy froze in place.
“You see, Father,” Roman said in an obsequious tone, “Marek has decided to take Ludwik on as his retainer, leaving me with Aleksy here.”
His face aflame, Aleksy turned to Roman, making no attempt to hide his hatred.
“Fine, fine!” the count said. “I knew you boys would work things out. Come here, Aleksy.”
Silently seething, Aleksy obeyed. The count took a gold cross on a leather lacing from his desk. “You are tall,” he said. “Here, bend your head a bit.”
Aleksy did so, feeling the lacing fall about his neck and the cross swing to and fro, falling into place just below his collarbone when he stood erect.
“You’re Christian and those you travel with must know you are Christian, my boy. Remember—it’s the cross that will prevail in Europe, not the infidels’ crescent.”
Aleksy and his father were silent much of the way home. The quiet was unnerving.
“Now, what’s this about making your own lance, Aleksy?” his father asked, breaking the silence just before their arrival, as if just remembering the boast. “Was that a lie?”
Aleksy told him how Szymon had shown him Count Halicki’s lance and how it had inspired him to create his own.
Borys grunted and said nothing.
No doubt, his father was relieved the family was not in jeopardy, but beyond that—what were his feelings? He seldom allowed his emotions to show. Would he miss his son? Aleksy wondered. Would he miss him as if they were of the same flesh? Would he worry for his health, pray that he not be wounded? Or, was he regretting most the loss of another hand in the field?
So his father had saved Count Halicki’s life—but kept it secret. Keeping wartime stories secret—is that what returning soldiers did? What else from those war years had he kept hidden? Aleksy remembered his father telling him some years ago that he was too inquisitive and that when he turned eighteen he would tell him more about the circumstances of his wartime adoption. What was there to be told? He was not so very far from that age now. Would he tell him before he left for the army? Did his father even remember the promise?
“Did you have a choice?” The question came from Damian. The family sat at the mid-morning meal that had been delayed because of the summons to the Halicki estate. “After all, the Halicki brothers—no one has a good word for them. And what they did to you—”
“That’s enough,” Jadwiga said. “Things will be different and those boys will pipe a different tune now that they and Aleksy are all on the same side.—Don’t you think so, Borys?”
“What?—yes, I expect that’s right.”
Aleksy looked at his mother, who seemed to have wished for stronger support from her husband. Upon hearing details of the visit to the Halicki estate, she had expressed her relief to hear nothing had even been said about the incident at the castle ruins, but when told about his induction as a retainer, she fended off tears and lines of worry returned to her tired face.
“You’ll need a change of clothes and a warmer cloak,” Jadwiga said. “You can take Damian’s with the sheepskin lining.”
“What?” Damian protested, bringing his fork down on his plate. But a severe glance from his father made him think again. “Oh, very well, he can have it.”
“Thanks,” Aleksy said although he was less than invested in the details of his having to leave home.
He lay on his cot that night tossing about, his mind teeming with thought. If the count had delayed but another day, Aleksy would have been gone on his own adventure. Might he have been accepted into service? Surely he would have if the Commonwealth and the whole of Europe were in as desperate a state as the count related. He could have fought. He could have been his own man. But now he was to render service to Roman, who so clearly hated him. As a retainer! How was he to endure it? His life would be made hell.
Aleksy thought about staying true to his plan and leaving in the middle of the night without a word to anyone. It was a consideration that did not go far. People would not believe he went to fight. They would deem him a coward, thinking that he ran from a challenge. His father would be humiliated in the eyes of Count Halicki. The relationship between the two compatriots going forward would never be the same. To leave would shame his family. And having brought shame on them and himself, he would fear a homecoming. No, if he were to leave on his own, he could not return.
Suddenly, mindless of the pain, he pulled himself up and sat on the side of the bed. He had a terrible thought. What if—Sweet Jezus, what if Krystyna had warned her brothers that I meant to leave come Saturday? Is it possible? Would it have been unintentional? Or would she do so intentionally, expecting that they would stop me? Was it mean-spirited revenge? She could not have imagined this outcome. Or could she?
She had been so angry with him. Aleksy recalled now Szymon’s telling him that Lady Krystyna seemed to enjoy having a fuss made. A fuss? This was much more than a fuss.
Aleksy stood and quietly left the cottage. Anyone hearing him would think he was making a night-time visit to the privy. He walked the grounds, Luba beside him. The full moon lighted the clear night. Stars were hard to detect. Fate had cast the die for him. He was to be a retainer. So what? Slowly, the realization came upon him. He would not be tied to the land at this young age. How he had wished for an escape. This was his escape. He would be a model retainer. Might there be advancements for men who could handle the bow as well as he? Create arrows as straight as his? Every man would be needed when the Ottomans thundered west across the steppes. He would be among soldiers and perhaps in the thick of battle. And he would learn to handle the Halicki brothers. He would make them see that dark skin and black eyes make little difference when one’s nation is in the fight of her life. Besides, there would be Tatars fighting on both sides. Everyone had heard of the bravery of the Lithuanian Tatars, the Lipka. Roman and Marek would learn to trust him, depend on him, and although they might never love him—or he, them—they would learn to co-exist, confining their targets to the coming Horde.
Aleksy returned to the cottage and settled himself on the cot, curling into an old familiar position. He thought about Idzi’s notion of the changeable and the unchangeable and he found himself at peace with what seemed his fate, his unchangeable fate. Luba yawned and settled on the dirt floor. “I’ll miss you, friend,” he whispered.
Still, he could not fall asleep until he admitted to himself that he would miss Krystyna. He felt an ache he had never experienced before. He leaned over and stroked Luba’s thick fur. “Will you miss me?” The whisper this time was not meant for his dog.
Eleven
Roman entered his father’s library and stood before the large desk. Count Halicki looked up from a document he was perusing. “You asked to see me, Father?”
“Yes, Roman, I did.” His father glanced up. “How are the preparations going?”
“Fine. All will be ready come Thursday.” Roman shifted from one foot to the other as his father’s attention returned to the paper. He was anxious to get back to his archery practice. His anger that someone had taken Aleksy’s bow and quiver had not cooled, and he vented his frustration by shooting at small forest animals with his inferior bow. He had not discovered who had taken them. He suspected Szymon, but to accost him about the matter would be an admission of his own guilt in the original theft. Had they been returned to the Tatar? The boy himself wouldn’t dare sneak about the estate. “Is that all, Father?”
“No. I want to remind you of my indebtedness to Borys Gazdecki.”
“He saved your life, I know.”
His father put his signature to the document, carefully blotted it, and looked up. “What you can’t know is how that changes things. How you see the world differently.”
Roman nodded.
“He sets great store by his son Aleksy.”
Roman shrugged. “He’s not really his son, Father. He’s a Tatar.”
“That does not preclude the fact that he is loyal to the Commonwealth.”
“Borys or Aleksy?”
“Both!—Don’t be impertinent! And you may happen to be of the szlachta, Roman, but you are to afford respect to those deserving of it despite their lot in life. Be respectful to him always.”
“Very well,” Roman mumbled. He was unimpressed but knew not to argue. It was a small enough issue. He had something more important in mind. “Father, have you seen to Szymon—for his having given our Turks over to my sister and the Tatar—Aleksy?”
“I have. I’ve spoken to him.”
“Spoken to him?”
“As for Aleksy—”
“Isn’t Szymon to be dismissed?”
“No, Roman, I am not going to dismiss him for being generous.”
“Generous!” Roman grew dizzy with anger. “He was generous with our thoroughbreds, mine and Marek’s! How dare he!”
“And who sent for them? Who paid for them? I did. Now I told you that I talked to him about it. It won’t happen again.”
Roman bit down on his lower lip. He longed to curse, but he knew that would not bode well the next time he wanted something. He turned to leave before his resolve to keep silent could weaken. “If that is all—”
“No, about Aleksy—”
Roman turned again to his father.
“I said at the start that he was to be Marek’s retainer and I meant it.”
Roman’s breath went out of him. “But Marek and I decided—”
“It doesn’t matter what you decided. He’s Marek’s.”
Roman struggled for control. “May I ask why?”
“For the same reason you want him as a retainer, I suspect. You would lean too hard on him. You seem to have a personal vendetta.”
“Who told you that? If Krystyna—”
“Never mind. I can see that you do.”
Roman opened his mouth but a denial failed him. He nodded to his father and left the room.
Krystyna sat in the window seat. She could hear her mother calling for her on the floor below. She did not respond. Would her mother climb the steep steps to the top level? Krystyna felt secure here. This had been the schoolroom for her and her older brothers in their early years when they were under the care of Henrieta Bakula, a strict but sincere governess whom the children called Yetta. On her rare visits home from school, Krystyna had transformed it into her own little kingdom complete with a red velvet high-back chair and needlepoint footstool. She shunned the wide canopied bed in her bedchamber below for the former governess’ narrow iron-framed bed that was situated in the corner where the roof sloped. What she loved most was the window seat beneath the semi-circle window from which she could watch the changes in the sky. Here she could dream.
There was an agitated knocking at the door, and then it was thrust open.
“Mother!” Krystyna jumped to her feet.
Countess Zenobia Halicki stood in the open doorway, breathless from the stairway. “I—I don’t know why you spend your time up here, Krystyna. These many flights are hard on me. And you have a lovely room three times as large below.”
Krystyna smiled. They had had this conversation before.
“We’ve had a letter from Lady Nardolska, Krysia,” her mother announced, still catching her breath.
“Yes?” Krystyna felt a little chill come over her. Her mother seldom used her diminutive so that when she did, Krystyna was put on guard.
“Come and sit down near me.” Her mother entered the sacrosanct room and sat upon the red velvet while Krystyna dropped to one of the children’s chairs close by. “Your marriage that we set for next year was arranged years ago.”
“I know.” She felt a kind of vertiginous movement in her stomach. She knew at her core that Klara had been right. It was no wonder that people said servants know more about what occurs in a household than does the master.
“Well, with things in turmoil as they are in the country, it seems that Fabian, your intended, will be called to serve in short order, like your brothers.”
“And?”
“They want us to come to Kraków so that everything can be arranged and the banns announced.”
Krystyna felt herself paling. “The banns—a year early?”
“No, dearest, they want the marriage to take place within a month.”
“A month!”
“It can be done. I can supervise your trousseau and—”
“I’m not concerned about a trousseau, Mother. I’m concerned that I have not met Fabian since before going to school. Six years!”
“You and he got along splendidly.”
“We were children!”
“This trip will allow a meeting.”
“A meeting?” Her stomach threatened revolt.
“Yes, dear.”
“A meeting and then marriage?”
A shadow passed over her mother’s face. “Yes, dear, it’s been planned this long while.”
“Not by me.”
“And so? Your parents have arranged this marriage. This is the way it is done. We have your best interest in mind.”
“Do you?”
Her mother’s face folded into a scowl. “Of course—and, might I say, this could be a blessing coming at this time.”
“This time?”
“I just pray to God that—wind of whatever went on at that castle doesn’t get to people like Lady Sylwia Dulska. That witch would likely send out runners with the gossip.”
“Mother, there is nothing to gossip about.”
“We didn’t send you to the good sisters so that the minute you arrive home you could have your good name dragged—”
“Stop it, Mother” Krystyna interrupted.
“While you may have convinced your father it was innocent, and it may be so, it’s a matter of how people perceive things.”
“They want a child, yes?”
“What?”
“They’re sending their heir off to war and they want the seed of his child in his wife—in case he does not return. That’s it, isn’t it?”
Her mother’s mouth fell agape. “Krystyna, what a way to talk! The nuns didn’t teach you such notions.”
“I did learn history and the concerns of dynasties, even lesser ones.”
“Don’t be flippant! The Nardolski family is a significant one, just a step or two away from magnate status. You’ve known about this union most of your life. It is the best possible match. Or did you think you could snare a future king?”
“Mother! I’m not attempting to snare anyone!”
The countess affected empathy. “My little Krysia, you’re frightened to have this come upon you so suddenly. That’s understandable, darling. I’ll see you through it.”
“What if I don’t like him?”
“You’ll learn to like him. Some of the best marriages start out this way. Love often blooms.”
“What of your marriage, Mother? Did you come to love Papa? I’ve heard you say to Papa that you don’t understand him, never have.”
“Ah, your ears are big and your tongue is tart, Krystyna. We have our differences, your father and I, but you can love someone you don’t quite understand.” The countess stiffened in the chair, the gray eyes hard as flint. “We leave next Wednesday. Your father is seeing to the arrangements.” She stood now. “Oh, tomorrow you are to say your goodbyes to Roman and Marek
at the morning meal and then you are to go to your room.”
“What? While everyone sees them off from the front portico, as is customary?”
“Yes.” The countess shifted in her chair.
“Why is that?” Krystyna rose.
The question gave her mother pause. “Because… because I say so.” She stood and started for the door.
“Is it because of the Tatar? Aleksy?”
Her mother halted and when she turned about, Krystyna could see that her face had reddened. “No.”
“It is. He’ll be there, too, with the other retainer. You’ve listened to the boys and what they’ve told you. You haven’t believed me—that everything at the ruins was innocent. He would make a good friend, perhaps. That’s all.”
“A friend?” Her mother gasped, the redness paling. “As you said, Krystyna, he is a Tatar. He’s not our kind. And I find it unseemly of you to be calling him by name.”
“Why?—It’s a Christian name.”
“I’ll wager his first name was not.”
Krystyna was at a loss to counter this statement but her conundrum was rendered moot by the closing of the door.
She moved to the window seat and sat, looking out as dusk fell. “Oh, Yetta,” she whispered, “if only you were here to guide me.”
Twelve
On the morning of departure, Roman entered the stable and found Szymon at the rear tossing hay over some object. “What is that?” he asked, quickening his steps.
“Nothing, milord, just an old lance.”
“Let me see,” he said, pushing the stable master aside. He leaned over and lifted it, shaking off the hay. “It’s not old and it’s not one of ours, is it? Although it does look much like father’s old relic.” He took stock of it. “It’s a good weight. Leverage is excellent. Where did it come from, Szymon? Where?”
The Boy Who Wanted Wings Page 11