She must think of something. There must be a chance—however slim—that she could convince her mother that this union would bring only unhappiness. Given time, she was clever enough to manipulate her parents, but the blessing of time had vanished with the coming of the Ottomans. Damn them!
And now—given the adoring gaze her mother was bestowing on Lord Fabian, as if he were Konrad, the hero of Danzig, or some such handsome knight stepping out of a fairy tale to win the day, as well as the lady—what could she say to prevent the inevitable?
That she loved another?
Do I?
Fifteen
The Wawel Cathedral bells rang out the fourth hour. Aleksy sat in camp, cross-legged, whittling at his figure of a horse. He had abandoned the first one, the one Idzi had thought was perhaps a goat. This was his third attempt.
He had done his hunting early, bringing back an array of rabbit, squirrel, and pheasant, all of which were hung close by, prepared for the fire. The cooking would be left to Ludwik, who was off exploring the town. Roman and Marek, blessedly, spent little of the daytime hours in camp. This time was Aleksy’s.
He was thinking again of the gypsy, regretting the four złotys he had lost to her—without gain to himself. He would not allow Ludwik to goad him into such a venture again. The woman had failed to render a single hint at his future. It was no wonder the priests preached against such tellers of fortune. And yet—she had realized he held two dreams. And she had honed in on his love for a high-born woman. How was that possible?
Ludwik appeared out of the ever-shifting streams of soldiers, retainers, servants, and camp followers passing by the campsite. “How’s the horse coming, Aleksy?” he asked.
Aleksy looked up. “Almost done, my friend. Now it’s just a matter of infusing it with life.”
Ludwik laughed. “And did you plan to shrink yourself to fit?”
Aleksy grinned. “Ha, tomorrow we’ll awake to find him full size, you’ll see, tall and sturdy, just like Flash and Miracle over there.”
“I saw something else today.”
“What now? A gypsy, by chance?”
“Something better. A young lady, by chance.”
“Really? Did she stalk you? Did she wink at you? I have no more złotys to lend you, should she rent by the hour.”
Ludwik dropped down beside Aleksy. “I’m serious. It was the girl!”
“What girl?”
“The girl you dream about.”
Aleksy’s lightheartedness soured at once. “Not funny, Ludwik.”
“No, really. It was at the cathedral. She was just as you described—long blond braids and beautiful beyond compare.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t know her. You’ve never seen her. And she’s at home in Halicz.”
“No! She’s here, Alek. It was her, it was.”
“Green eyes?”
“I don’t know—I didn’t get close enough.”
“Then how could you… and I suppose she was wearing a yellow gown? You see a pretty girl in a yellow dress and you think it’s the same girl? How naïve you are, Ludwik.”
“It wasn’t yellow. Do you think girls always wear the same dress? That’s naïve! It was blue.”
“Then what possessed you to think—”
“Her name is Krystyna.”
“What?” Aleksy felt a flutter in his chest.
“It is.”
“Ha! Why, there must be a thousand Krystynas here in Kraków alone.”
“But this one is yours!”
“You’re daft, man.—What makes you think so?”
Ludwik’s smile was all smugness, as if he were laying down his last card, the card that would win the game. “Because I followed her out of the cathedral and on the steps there she met with her brothers who were waiting for her.”
Aleksy felt as if all his breath had been suddenly taken from him. His head spun. “Roman and—”
Ludwik nodded. “Roman and Marek, yes.”
Aleksy sat back, allowing his dizziness to pass, the news to be absorbed. Krystyna Halicka was here in Kraków. How was it possible? In a few moments another thought sparked. “Ludwik, how did you know—that is, I never told you—”
“That your Krysia is their sister? Give me some credit. I may not read and write like you, but I’m no fool either. Last week I overheard Marek mention his sister’s name, and it took about two seconds to put things together.”
Aleksy jumped to his feet.
“Not so fast, young lover! She’s gone.”
“Gone? How do you know? She may still be in the square.”
“She’s not. I saw Roman and Marek escort her out of the square.”
“Where to?”
“Alas, that’s where my knowledge hits a stone wall. They went down Grodzka Street which had few people and I dared not be recognized by Roman. He’d thrash the living hell out of me.”
“Damn, Ludwik, you could have thought of something if they saw you!”
“But I didn’t. Sorry.” Silence ensued. Ludwik then ventured a thought. “Couldn’t you find out her whereabouts from—”
One dark look from Aleksy aborted his sentence. There was no way he could broach the subject of Krystyna to her brothers.
Aleksy had been told by several Krakówians that their Rynek Glówny was the largest and most beautiful Market Square in all of Europe. But as the days of his search for Krystyna wore on, he began to wish the square were a little smaller. Bordered by countless town houses, palaces and churches, the Market Square had as its focal point the massive Sukiennice—the Cloth Hall—the center of commerce. The roof of the building had a parapet embellished with painted masks that Aleksy came to feel were mocking him as he made his hourly rounds that took him through and around the hall, squeezing then through the teeming square that smelled of spices and unwashed bodies, up the stone steps into the colossal architectural hodgepodge that was the Wawel Cathedral, passing through the vestibule, the nave, the transept’s crossing, coming at last to the sanctuary boundary, no longer impressed by the Herculean columns, ornately vaulted ceilings, sculpted figures, or daunting tombs.
So often had he passed by a priest, Father Franciszek, who stood at the cathedral’s entrances selling little medals of Saint Stanislaus of Szczepanów, Poland’s patron saint—for the maintenance of the building, he said—that they had struck up an acquaintance. “In and out like a light,” the priest joked today. “Plentiful but brief are your orisons. Alek, I’ll give you a złoty if you tell me what you’re praying for.”
Aleksy favored him with a smile. “A miracle, Father.”
Retracing his steps, he repaired to where Grodzka Street met the square. Here, on the spot where Ludwik had last seen Krystyna, he rested, watching the colorful beehive of activity before him, his eyes ever alert, his heart despondent.
It was on the seventh day of his afternoon routine that he stood at the corner of Grodzka Street, leaning against a town house. There was no time for making his rounds again. He would be expected back at camp. He came to a decision. On the morrow he would ask Ludwik to switch his free time to the afternoon hours, allowing him to search in the morning. Perhaps Krystyna came out in the earlier, cooler hours of the day. And then, again, perhaps she had not returned to the Market Square at all. Perhaps this was all for nothing. She might already be back in Halicz.
Ready to plunge into the hive once again, he was moving away from the stone building when someone tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Aleksy.” He turned about, but he had recognized the honeyed voice at once.
Krystyna was dressed in a gown of deep green that made Aleksy notice her emerald eyes first and then her expression, one that he deciphered as playful delight. On her head she wore a gold scalloped scarf of Eastern design, one of her red-gold braids
eluding it and spilling down her bodice. He took in a big breath. She seemed to be waiting for him to say something but words would not come.
“I thought I might find you somewhere about,” she said.
“You were looking for me?” Her animated expression made him think she had been doing just that.
“Well, not really searching, but I thought I would tell you something if I were to find you.” Krystyna seemed to be tempering her initial excitement—joy?—upon seeing him.
“What are you doing here, Krystyna?”
“My parents brought me. They… we came to visit family friends.”
“It’s a strange time to go visiting, what with the fate of our nation in the balance.”
“Well… they had their reasons.”
“I’m glad that they did.”
“I’m not.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. They’re an uninteresting family.”
“They live here on Grodzka Street?”
“They do.” She gave a little shake of her head. “What about you? When will you be leaving?”
“When the king finally arrives from Warsaw. We hear he’s travelling with a huge entourage and it’s going very slowly.”
“I see.”
The conversation continued in this way for several minutes, touching on the Ottoman threat and approaching storm of war that could change forever the face of Europe. It seemed to Aleksy that they had started to exchange bits of information in a formal sort of way and that the excitement of the initial informal and more personal meeting was deflating. It was as if they were strangers. Had she really kissed him on his day of departure from Halicz—or had he imagined it? “You said you had something to tell me,” he said. Did he dare think she would share her feelings? Was it about the kiss?
“What… oh, it’s about your dog.”
“Luba?”
“Yes, just after you and the others left, Luba went down our drive to the road, following your scent.”
“She did?”
“Yes, she must love you very much.”
“She does.—And you?” The bold words were out of his mouth as if the gypsy had possessed him. The heat of embarrassment rose up into his face.
Krystyna misinterpreted—deliberately, he was certain—the abrupt question. “I once had a terrier, but he formed no special bond with me. Quite independent he was. Oh, he warmed up—to anyone who had a piece of meat or cheese to offer him.”
“Luba got home all right?” This thread of thought was disconcerting. Of course, he was concerned for his beloved dog, but what if she had brought Luba to his home? What would she have thought of such a spare cottage and the simple way his parents lived?
“He did. I found your dwarf Idzi talking to our stable master Szymon, so I had him take her.”
“Thank you, Krystyna.”
“Krysia.”
His heart beat fast. “Krysia, then.” It seemed the line of formality had been breached.
“Would you like to walk around the square?” he asked.
“I dare not. If I were seen—”
“By your brothers?”
She shrugged. “And others.”
“Who?”
Her expression went dark and her tone sharpened. “It doesn’t matter. Others, that’s all.”
He felt the moment of closeness slipping away. Impulsively he took her hands and pulled her a few steps to the side of the building where a doorway arch sheltered them from only the most curious eyes. He drew her close then and kissed her.
For a moment he thought the kiss would go on, as had the one she had initiated. But she pulled back, her face contorted and grim. “No!” she cried.
“But I thought—that is, you kissed me—in Halicz.”
“That—that was—”
Aleksy bristled. “What, a mistake?”
“No,” she said. “But this is a mistake.” She was backing out from the embrasure. “This is a mistake. I must go now, Aleksy.”
He tried to hold on to her hands, but they pulled away, one and then the other. “Stay a moment, will you?”
“We’re not to meet again. We can’t.”
“Because I’m a Tatar?”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Your family, then?”
“Yes, of course. And—”
“And what?”
“Goodbye, Aleksy. Do not follow me. It will be dangerous for you.” She turned her back to him and started to move off.
“Wait, Krystyna! Meet me here tomorrow at noon—please!”
Still in motion, Krystyna turned her head to him for a moment. “I can’t, Aleksy. I can’t—you must forget me!” She slipped now in and among the crowd on the street.
For a moment he wished he had not found her here in Kraków, that she had remained what she had been to him: a wonderful, impossible dream.
But this wish was eclipsed by the sight—just seconds before—of her green gown and her porcelain face beneath a scalloped gold veil turning to warn him away. Those emerald eyes were streaming tears.
Aleksy stood transfixed, watching until the last bits of green and gold dissolved into the tapestry of the teeming street scene. She was gone.
Sixteen
Roman had only just moved out of the Market Square and into Grodzka Street when he nearly collided with a young man who wasn’t watching where he was walking.
“Aleksy!”
Aleksy’s head jerked upright. He halted.
“Looking for lost coins, Aleksy?”
“No, milord.”
“You were walking with your head down. Have you lost a złoty, then?”
“No, milord.”
Roman realized the Tatar’s dark complexion was unnaturally pale. “What is it? Are you all right?”
“Yes, I am.”
What had put him out of sorts? Roman looked up the street toward the Nardolski town house. Could he be aware of Krystyna’s presence in Kraków? How? Not very likely, he decided. But just the slightest possibility sharpened his tone now. “Just what are you doing here, Aleksy?”
“It’s my free time, milord. Like Ludwik, I enjoy exploring the city.”
“Indeed?” Roman noted how very little he seemed to be enjoying anything. “What are you doing on Grodzka Street?”
“Is that the name? I didn’t know. I’ve explored all the streets leading from the square. I’m on my way back to camp now. Did you see the fat pheasant I brought in this morning? I don’t want Ludwik to char it on the spit.”
Roman watched some shift go on behind the Tatar’s eyes, as if he suddenly realized it was to his own benefit to mask his sour mood with a light and friendly tone. Roman’s impulse was to throttle the truth out of him, but he knew that would do little good. Aleksy was a stubborn one. And here on the public street, he hesitated to make a scene. Besides, he was Marek’s retainer, so according to custom only Marek could take physical action. It was a custom he would easily disregard, but his gut told him he would need greater motivation than merely finding him on the street where the Nardolskis live. “You’d best move, then, hadn’t you?”
Aleksy pivoted and moved away.
“Aleksy!” Roman called.
The Tatar stood still and turned to look back, his face opaque.
“Marek and I won’t be there for the late meal. Be certain to save the full breast of the pheasant for us.”
Aleksy nodded, turned away, and melted into the crowded square.
Roman moved up Grodzka Street, toward the Nardolski town house. The Tatar’s placement in this street and his behavior were too much to ignore. Was it merely coincidental? He would bear close watching.
In the evening, while escorting his mother
in to supper, Roman whispered to her. “Did Krystyna leave the house today?”
“No, she did not. Why?”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes. She has had explicit orders not to leave the house unattended.”
“Mother, be certain she obeys. There are dangers out there to be found.” The tête-à-tête concluded as they entered the dining room, where five others were seating themselves: Krystyna, Fabian Nardolski, his parents, and Marek, who had arrived in the late afternoon.
Roman watched Krystyna, who added to the conversation when addressed but in the interims seemed distracted. He thought her behavior the likely result of being thrust into a marriage that up until recently had been set for the next year. What had seemed remote was now days away. She was behaving as well as might be expected. He had to admit to himself she was in a situation he himself would not appreciate.
He watched Fabian Nardolski, too. The man was personable and handsome—and he knew it. Even in the conversations he didn’t initiate, he seemed to dominate, so great were his knowledge and opinions—and so straight his teeth, their whiteness exaggerated by his tanned complexion. He was trying hard to impress Krystyna, it seemed. Whether his effort was having any effect remained to be seen, but by the end of the meal Roman was impressed that Fabian’s goblets of wine outnumbered his own.
The clock on the mantel out in the suite’s sitting room gently chimed two o’clock. In her bed, Krystyna turned on to her side. She had yet to fall asleep. The events of the day played and replayed in her mind. She had tried to live up to expectations at supper. Had it appeared that way to others? She was the princess consenting to marriage to a prince so that two nations might be united, to the benefit of the many. According to her parents, that was the object of marriage. Except that she was not a princess—although her parents did see the union as a political one that would unite two families, a union that would elevate one—theirs—to new heights.
The Boy Who Wanted Wings Page 15