The Boy Who Wanted Wings

by James Conroyd Martin

  Roman nodded toward Aleksy. “By him?”

  “No, milord, by the stable master.”

  “Szymon? He dared to countermand my order?” His eyes went to Aleksy.

  Aleksy recognized the disappointment in his face. Roman had hoped he was the one, he realized. In that case, he would feel free to take some measure against him. As it was, any other infractions Aleksy might commit were to be handled by Marek. It was a favor from the saints—and from Krystyna—that he had been made the younger brother’s retainer, rather than Roman’s. Had not Lord Halicki intervened at Krystyna’s request, Roman would have had complete freedom in his behavior toward Aleksy.

  His face aflame with rage and his mouth closed so tight as to make his lips seem but dark lines, Roman turned and hightailed it toward the front of the procession.

  Less than an hour later, Gusztáf made the mistake of riding too close to Roman’s horse. Roman leaned over toward him and with both hands struck him with enough force to jolt the boy from his saddle. At first one foot caught in his stirrup but when it came free, he tumbled headfirst to the ground. Oblivious, the caravan continued on. Only Aleksy and Ludwik halted and dismounted to aid the disoriented and bleeding Gusztáf.

  Aleksy empathized with the boy. He had been Roman’s victim by proxy.

  God’s wounds, he silently swore. According to Szymon, it was two hundred and sixty-eight miles to Kraków. Travelling at fewer than twenty miles per day, it would take them a fortnight.

  It was not an auspicious beginning.

  On the second day, as planned, they met up with four more szlachta soldiers and their retinue of grooms, servants, and retainers, tripling twice over the length of the caravan. Each noble soldier had two or three retainers and Aleksy suspected such extravagance piqued Roman and Marek, who had—other than paid drivers for the two Halicki wagons—only one each. On the positive side, however, Aleksy’s skill with the bow meant there was no campsite meal without fresh meat or fowl—and often enough to share with the other nobles and their retinues. Roman’s eyes had widened and he glared with hatred at Aleksy when he saw him with the coveted bow for the first time, no doubt wondering how he had come by it. He said nothing, however, and a few comments overheard in the ensuing days made it seem as if Roman was proud of the fact that one of their retainers was by far the best shot and able to provide bountiful game. Ludwik proved himself best at arranging the fire and turning the spit. It came as a surprise to both retainers that things in the Halicki group began to run rather smoothly.

  On two occasions the cavalcade came to inns for the night. The szlachta soldiers took rooms while their retinues took shelter in barns and other outbuildings and were pleased to do so. One slept with an eye open for thieves or wolves when sleeping in the tents or in the open.

  It was on his short, diversionary hunting forays—those times when Aleksy had to become single-focused—that he felt a purpose and a power. At other times of the day and night the thought of Krystyna was on his mind or a hair’s breadth away.

  He replayed in his imagination every instance of their meetings, every word spoken between them. For each thoughtless comment, glance, or laugh she had shown, there were points in time when she seemed to understand and even connect with him. But for the most part these were unspoken moments, moments he had recounted so many times that he could not trust his memory that they even occurred. The only occurrences he could rely on as true were the two kisses. He had taken the initiative at the castle ruins, but it was the kiss she had given him that stayed with him. He could still conjure the pressure and moistness of her lips, the closeness of their bodies, and the faint scent of violets about her person.

  She kissed him! Might it portend something? Would she see him when this war with the Ottomans passed into history? Just the slimmest possibility that this could be lifted his spirits. He passed his hand over the hidden pocket of his żupan that held the pink ribbon she had given him. He felt hopeful. And then—like the sword of Damocles—would come the realization that he was nothing more than a peasant in one of her father’s villages, a retainer to her mean-spirited brothers—and a Tatar with dark-hued skin and slanted eyes. There was that, always that.

  He mentioned nothing of Lady Krystyna to Ludwik. If he had laughed at his notion of soldiering, mention of his love—and it was that, Aleksy had come to admit—would send him howling as if mesmerized by a king’s jester.

  As the days wore on, Szymon’s estimate of travel time proved accurate. In a fortnight they arrived at their destination.

  Kraków was a marvel to Aleksy and Ludwik, neither of whom had been to a town larger than Halicz. After days of travel their fatigue evaporated at the sight of the Wawel Royal Castle and the great cathedral—where for centuries Polish kings had been crowned and buried—their foundations rooted to a great rise of limestone called Wawel Hill. These edifices sat safely enclosed by wall and tower fortifications. Dwarfing the lesser structures and humble homes to the north, Wawel Royal Castle—wreathed in a morning mist—seemed to float in space like some unearthly land of enchantment, the Vistula bending and winding through the lower part of the city, south to northwest, like a loosened sash on a rotund noble.

  But it was not a city asleep.

  The center and environs teemed with citizens, soldiers and their retinues, animals, wagons, all in motion, all reverberating with a great racket. In addition to the many Christian churches, the city was home to several synagogues and a good number of Jews.

  The components of the still amassing army took over huge fields south of the city. On the absent king’s orders, companies were streaming in from the northern and central areas of the Commonwealth, as well as from Podolia, Moldavia, and Galicia. The makeshift quarters in the fields were shrinking with each influx. The newly arrived and comparatively tiny Galician contingent from Halicz found a spot just large enough near the river. The servants who had helped with the move would return to their homes within a day or two. The soldiers and retainers would stay and await orders—and the arrival of the king. Rumor had it that King Jan Sobieski would reach Kraków by the end of July.

  Aleksy and Ludwik were afforded a little lean-to tent attached to the larger one the brothers used. The two wagon drivers who would stay on, Bogdan and Jacek, somehow found space in their crowded wagons, as well as canvas to protect them from the elements. Once the other servants departed, it would be the responsibility of the two retainers to hold every inch of space they had claimed, and as act as grooms, bargainers, hunters, cooks, as well as guardians of their goods, food stock, armor, and weapons. The two drivers were old and of little use other than manning the wagons, so it came home to Aleksy early on just why many of the nobles had three retainers each. It was no extravagance. Aleksy and Ludwik were doing the work of six.

  Early on the morning Gusztáf and the other servants were to leave, Gusztáf reached into the tent and tugged at Aleksy’s booted foot. Aleksy crawled outside and stood, wiping at his eyes. The summer morning’s mist swirled around their feet. “What is it?”

  Gusztáf, never a talker, was tongue tied at first. “I… I never thanked you for helping me up that first day, you and Ludwik.”

  “Ah, you’re welcome, Gusztáf. You’ll want to thank Ludwik, too, yes?” Aleksy started to lift the flap of the tent to call out Ludwik, but Gusztáf restrained his hand. “No, I have more to say—to you only.”

  Aleksy turned back toward him. “Yes?” He looked into the serious hazel eyes, and the quip he was about to make died in his throat.

  “I’m sorry—for that day I told Roman that I saw you heading for the ruins.”

  “Ah, well, you couldn’t have known their sister was there, too.”

  Gusztáf’s eyes went to the ground and slowly came up again. “I did know. I put together things that Szymon had said.”

  “You thought Lady Krystyna was in some danger the
n? It was a reasonable thought.”

  Gusztáf shook his head. “No, the young miss has a mind of her own and needs no bodyguard. I misjudged you. Oh, I didn’t think you a danger… but I was jealous.”

  “Of me?—Why?”

  “That Szymon sets such store by you.”

  “I see.” Aleksy took Gusztáf’s hand in both of his. “Thank you, my friend.”

  Was it the mist or were there tears in Gusztáf’s eyes? The groom withdrew his hand. “Before we wake Ludwik, I want to wish you well and to be careful to always safeguard yourself.”

  Aleksy chuckled. “I’ll be in danger, Gusztáf, you can count on that, but no more so than are those thousands you see here who have come together for the Commonwealth.”

  “You are.” Gusztáf drew him farther from the tent where Roman and Marek were sleeping off a night of drinking at the taverns. When they stopped, he leaned into Aleksy. “I’ve heard him talk.”

  “Roman?”

  Gusztáf nodded. “More than once. Beware.”

  At that moment Ludwik pushed open the tent flap, making his appearance and cutting short Gusztáf’s warning.

  The sights and sounds of Kraków wore off in short order for Aleksy. Mornings were spent hunting. Whereas he and Ludwik had started alternating days for venturing into the city center for an hour or two, Aleksy—so taken up with his thoughts of Krystyna—allowed Ludwik to see the sights three or four days to his one. He stayed to watch over the campsite and maintain the personal armor of the Halicki brothers.

  Every night since his arrival, he dreamt of Krystyna. But this night, the fifth, was scored into his memory by the time morning came. They were in the castle ruins and she was running from him, flying up the stairs of the castle keep, calling his name and laughing. Upon his arriving at the top level, he quickly ascertained that she had vanished. From the gaping window, he looked down, afraid of what he might see. The courtyard was empty.

  “Aleksy!” she called. Dreams need not conform to spatial rules so that when he looked across the courtyard, he spied her at the door leading into the east tower. “Aleksy! Come find me,” Krystyna called in a childlike voice. She disappeared into the tower and he went racing down the keep stairs, out into the yard, then to the tower. Round and round he climbed the open, crumbling stairwell. He was dizzy by the time he reached the top. He moved out onto the battlements. She was not to be found. He leaned out over one of the broken crenelles, surveying the landscape, as archers must have done for centuries. Then his eyes moved down, looking into the waterless, rocky bed of the moat.

  Krystyna lay on the ground, her body mangled, lifeless.

  Aleksy took in the sight. This is not possible, his heart cried. And then he called out, again and again, “Krysia! Krysia!”

  His cry was suddenly interrupted by a violent shaking. He awoke staring into Ludwik’s wide, blue eyes.

  “What is it, Alek?” Ludwik asked, addressing Aleksy informally, for a fine friendship had developed between them.

  “What?—nothing, Ludwik. I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “You were calling out in your sleep.”

  “Was I?—I’m sorry.”

  “Who is Krysia?”

  “What?” Aleksy felt his heart contract as if a hand had grasped it.

  “Krysia. That’s the name you called out.”

  “Shush, Ludwik, shush! Are Roman and Marek back yet?”

  “No, they’re probably good for another hour at the taverns.”

  Thank the Lord Jezus! Aleksy thought. He had been calling out the name of their sister. What struck him as bizarre was the fact that he had used her diminutive, a privilege she had never afforded him. She had mentioned the nickname at their first meeting at the castle ruins, but in all his daydreaming of her he had never even thought of her as Krysia—it was always Krystyna. What did it mean? Dreams were unfathomable.

  “Who is she—this Krysia?”

  “A girl.”

  “Really? I guessed as much.” He gave out with the facsimile of a laugh. “You’ll have to say more than that before I let you fall back asleep.”

  Aleksy didn’t intend to do it—tell him—but the story spilled out of him like waters from a sluice gate. He spoke of his meetings with the enigmatic Krysia, the contrary signals she sent, and the final goodbye kiss. What he withheld from his friend was the fact that she was the daughter of the landowner, sister of Roman and Marek, and—of course—that she was of the nobility.

  “So you were—are—infatuated with a girl from the village, huh?” Ludwik asked. “If it were me, I’d be more direct. I’d let her know how I feel. But then again, I’m twenty. You’ll know for next time with the next girl. Don’t be so damn delicate.” He paused a moment, as if refiguring. “Ah, but then again, you probably feel like you do because of your Tatar blood, yes?”

  That again. Funny how sometimes I forget. “Yes, there is that.”

  “Still, if she doesn’t require too much of a dowry, I suppose her parents would be happy to have you take her off their hands.”

  The confession had gone far enough. Aleksy was suddenly filled with regret for revealing any details. It could prove dangerous. “You won’t tell them, will you?” Aleksy nodded in the direction of the brothers’ tent. “I mean, we are friends now, yes?”

  “Yes. It’s just between us.” A long moment passed. Ludwik’s gaze moved in the direction of the Halicki tent, as if considering the little vow he had taken, as if suspecting there might be something worthy of being hidden from them. In another moment he seemed to brush off the notion, saying offhandedly, “Oh Alek, anytime you need advice about love, just let me know.”

  “I will,” Aleksy said, rolling to his side, his back to Ludwik, and all but certain that his fellow retainer had never been in love.

  “Or,” Ludwik said as an afterthought, “maybe you can consult a gypsy. There is an old wagon farther down at the water’s edge that belongs to an old crone. For a złoty she’s at the ready to tell the fortune of a soldier.”

  “But I’m not a soldier. I’m a god-forsaken retainer!”

  Fourteen

  Krystyna stood at the window on the top floor of the Kraków town house belonging to the Nardolski family, the July sun streaming in. She wore the white gown of Indian cotton that her mother had insisted upon. Her own preferences ran to colors—reds, blues, greens, yellows—but she had to admit that it was a cool garment in what promised to be a scorching day. The Nardolski city residence was not far from Market Square so that she watched the city swarm with animals, vehicles, and people of all races, classes, and occupations. The sight held her transfixed for many minutes before she turned around and took stock of her rooms. The night before, she and her mother had been given a warm welcome by Count and Countess Nardolski, and she had to admit that with the plush velvet sofa and matching bed hangings, as well as a French vanity table with silver combs and brushes laid out, she had been given a most luxurious suite. She had been provided with a sitting room leading into the bedchamber that featured a separate dressing area with massive wardrobes. Her suite faced the street while her mother’s was on the same level but at the back of the house. The luxury impressed her. A far cry from her cell at convent school. And yet skepticism closed in.

  A light rap came at the door and her mother entered without pause, passing quickly through the sitting room and onto the brilliant Persian carpet of the bedchamber, her gray eyes alight and scanning the room, like search lanterns. “My! We arrived too late last night for me to get a good look at your chamber. It’s lovely, dearest, isn’t it?” No reply was expected. “The tapestries are exquisite!”

  “And how is your suite, Mother?”

  “Mine? Nothing like this,” she whispered, “if one might even call it a suite. It may have belonged to a maid.—But it doesn’t matter, does it? It certainly
seems they wish to spoil you.”

  “You needn’t go on about that. It’s you they wanted to impress.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, Mother, that last night I overheard you speaking with Lady Nardolska after you had viewed the rooms. You insisted they reverse their arrangements. The maid’s room was the one intended for me, wasn’t it? They wanted to pamper you. I’m merely the property they are acquiring.”

  Her mother’s face ran red. “Krystyna, that’s no way to look at it—”

  Krystyna gave a dismissive wave of her hand. How she dearly loved to outwit and provoke her mother. “Never mind, Mother.”

  “Oh, I do wish your father had come. I thought at his age he was done with war.”

  “Will our host, Count Nardolski, serve in the army?”

  “The elder? Why, I don’t know. Nothing was said.”

  “Perhaps he’s too wealthy.”

  “Krystyna! What do you mean? What a thing to say! I’m sure he’ll serve if called upon.”

  “Perhaps. But Papa said his call is from his conscience.”

  “What are you saying about Count Nardolski? Hush! I don’t like this conversation—and in their own home! Their son, your betrothed, is serving for this household.”

  “So they said.”

  Her mother looked askance. “Fabian is in his company’s camp outside the city. He’s to be here for the betrothal supper.”

  Krystyna felt a fluttering in her breast. For years her parents had talked about Fabian Nardolski as her intended, but to her their union seemed a distant, nebulous thing. Now the word betrothal conjured up a thing of substance, something that shook her insides, something that made her cower. Krystyna looked to her mother. She wanted to run to her, to be held, but chose to keep her distance. There was no safe harbor there.