How was she to escape her fate? Fortuna’s whimsical wheel was turning. There would be no arguing with her mother. Lord Fabian had enchanted her, that was clear, and the same would be true of her father once he arrived. Fabian had drunk quite a bit at supper, but that was the way of things for young men, especially men in the military. Besides, he seemed to hold his liquor well. She remembered now how during the meal his sparkling turquoise eyes would move surreptitiously to her, holding her gaze with such boldness that it seemed as if he were holding her at the waist, drawing her near. As if he were kissing her with his eyes. These moments played out quickly, for he meant no one else to notice. He no doubt thought that they were welcome flirtations and that she would respond in kind. She, however, felt nothing in these moments and she hoped her own gaze relayed exactly that. It was only now, in retrospect, that she realized that she did feel something. It was neither attraction nor love. It was a sense of violation.
And yet she was fated to marry this man, to spend all of her days with him.
Her mind moved back to the afternoon—to Aleksy. In having told him that she had not been searching him out, she had lied to him. She had sneaked out of the Nardolski servants’ door three days running so that she could scour the Market Square. But it wasn’t until she tapped him on the shoulder and he turned around that she realized how desperately she had been searching. For in that moment she knew she had dropped all the decorum that a young lady was supposed to exhibit, so infused was she with exhilaration to see him again. He—with his sharp dark eyes and sharper mind—could not have missed what she felt. Oh, she had attempted to switch to a more impersonal persona but doubted her acting skills had been very convincing. At their parting, how could he have missed the tears in her eyes?
Krystyna sat up to throw back the summer quilt and draw up the lightest of covers. She lay back, eyes on the ceiling that had been painted like a sky—blue, with a myriad of tiny stars, invisible to her now in the darkness. That was the moment, she thought, that split-second when she turned her head for one final glance and caught the depth of hurt in his dark eyes, that she knew she loved him. That was mere hours earlier. And yet it was a lifetime. Sadness, emptiness, and despair enveloped her. She would never look upon those almond-shaped black eyes, never taste those dark lips again. He was on a different path. No!—she immediately corrected herself—it was she who was on a different path. If only I were a peasant, free to marry the man I love.
The lightest knock came at the door, arresting all thought and emotion. It was the middle of the night. She was about to call out, asking who it was, when she heard the door’s latch lift and the door creak open. She immediately deduced it was her mother, whose calling card was just that: a light knock and then entry without waiting for a welcome.
The spidery play of someone’s candlelight from the sitting room reached into the bedchamber, shadow chasing shadow.
“Mother?” Krystyna whispered. Then, louder “Mother, is that you?”
No response.
Krystyna waited, heart racing. Slowly, she sat up, bringing her legs to the side of the bed, dropping her feet to the floor. Stricken dumb with thoughts of an intruder, she tried to think of something nearby that could serve as a weapon. Why hadn’t she thought to have one within reach? This wasn’t a walled convent school, nor was it their provincial country estate where doors were left unlocked. This was Kraków—like all great cities, a place of great wealth and culture, but also one where evil might be found lurking in alleyways or in one’s own home, and it was especially abundant now, with great multitudes of soldiers and their hangers-on gathered to drink and game and—
The figure was moving out of the sitting room now and coming forward, into the bedchamber. The shadowy silhouette was much taller and huskier than her mother’s thin physique. It was a man.
“Who is it?” she cried. “Tell me or I shall scream the house down.”
“No, don’t do that, Krystyna!” He moved the candle close to his face then.
“You!” she cried.
“In the flesh,” he said.
Krystyna stood, covering herself out of embarrassment for her thin nightdress. She backed up a pace as he advanced.
“You wouldn’t want to wake the household, would you?” The words fell in the most casual and charming fashion from Lord Fabian Nardolski’s lips that one would think the middle of the night entry into a maiden’s bedchamber nothing other than an ordinary appearance at breakfast in the dining hall.
“Lord Nardolski!”
“Ah, so formal, Krystyna, so formal.”
She saw that he was disheveled but fully dressed. He must be drunk, she thought. Her fear recast itself into pique. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought that if we were of like minds, you would not be able to sleep either.”
“I—I was sound asleep.”
He laughed. “You must be a light sleeper.”
“This is—”
“Inappropriate, I know that.—Did I frighten you?”
“No.” She strived for a bravado she didn’t feel. “I’m quite used to men stealing into my bedchamber.”
“Oh, really?” Laughing, he set the candle down on a table and moved two steps forward, halting when he saw she had taken three back so that she stood pinned against the wall. “I just thought that we could become more acquainted without the presence of others always about.”
What had he in mind? Krystyna tried to hold her voice steady. Fear returned. “There will be time for that.”
He nodded. “Alas, after we’re married. That is true, but I wanted to crack the enigma that is Lady Krystyna Halicka before I marry her.”
“There is nothing puzzling about me. We could meet tomorrow in the garden. I shall see to it that we are alone.”
“Sadly, my duties will take me away for the duration of the day.”
How to answer this? Just what are his intentions, Krystyna questioned, her mind holding panic in check.
“You are a puzzle, Krysia.—You see, you just flinched when I dared to use your diminutive. I’ve watched you and opened my heart to you and in return, I see nothing beyond the startling green of your eyes. Your eyes are like sentinels, always watching, always on guard. What are they guarding, Krystyna?”
“Nothing, Lord Nardolski.” He was completely sober, more so than at the supper table.
“That’s what I fear—that there is nothing in those eyes for me. Is it still Lord Nardolski?”
“Fabian.”
“Better. Have you had a suitor at home? Is that it?”
Krystyna felt blood drain from her face and was thankful for the dimness of the candlelight. “No,” she said.
“And even though the marriage has been moved up, you do agree to it?”
Krystyna’s back stiffened involuntarily and she sensed one of her old moments of recklessness coming on. “Has it been moved up so that I might bring the family a Nardolski heir?”
“You mean, should something happen to me? Now I see a glimmer of something behind those emerald orbs. Honesty! How I do appreciate that! While my mother may have such morbid thoughts about my survival in mind, I do not. That may be my parents’ reason for the hastiness, but it is not mine. I will return from battle, you may be sure.”
Krystyna stood speechless.
“I understand, too, from my father, that you voiced some concern about where we would reside. We have what we call a hunting lodge, but its eighteen rather luxurious rooms make it much more than that. I can assure you that we’ll take residence there. I promise. Believe me, I know my mother can be overbearing. You’ll be witness to her ways only on holidays.—Agreed?”
Krystyna could do nothing but grudge the slightest nod.
“Good! I’ll take that admission as a little victory. You do intrigue me! Our marriage
will be a good one, Krystyna.” Fabian bowed now, as if he were excusing himself from a dance partner. “Forgive me for the impropriety of this visit. I’ll not keep you from your sleep any longer. I’ll leave the candle for you. I can find my way around the Nardolski museum blindfolded.” He turned now and, like a ship into fog, faded away into the darkness of the sitting room, his footfalls so noiseless that she realized he must have been barefoot.
Krystyna moved forward and collapsed into a sitting position at the side of the bed. She sat staring at the candle flame, attempting to come to terms with what had just taken place.
Lord Fabian Nardolski had taken her by surprise once again. Initially, she had thought him inebriated. He was not. She had thought that in coming into her bedchamber he had only dark intentions. He had not. And up until now she had thought him with his air of frothy charm nothing more than a supercilious man about town. Not only had she been wrong on these counts, but he had wiped away in one brief and inappropriate visit, the reservations she had had about him and marriage into the Nardolski clan.
She leaned over and blew out the candle.
All but one reservation.
Sleep was slow in coming.
Seventeen
Aleksy had gone into the lean-to tent very late and had difficulty getting to sleep so that he slept a full hour past his usual time to rise and go hunting. He slowly awoke to someone tickling the bottoms of his bare foot. The tent flap was letting in light. He grunted and retracted his foot. He longed to sleep a bit longer. “Ten minutes, Ludwik,” he said. “Just ten.” He settled himself once again on the pallet, but within a minute or two felt the unmistakable touch of a feather raking the bottom of his foot.
“Damn it, Ludwik!” he cried, lifting his head, any lingering sleepiness done in by annoyance. He sat up at once.
“Whatever it is, I am innocent!” Ludwik called from outside the tent.
He was not the perpetrator who leaned in, a pheasant feather in hand. Aleksy blinked, focusing now at the figure at the foot of his pallet, his overly large head protruding into the tent. “Idzi!”
“Idzi it is. Are you going to sleep the day away?”
Half an hour later Aleksy, Ludwik, and Idzi sat around the campfire sipping at tin mugs of chicory-infused coffee.
“They say,” Ludwik said, “when we get to Vienna, there will be so much coffee that there will be no need to weaken the coffee with chicory.”
“I tried the pure Arabian stuff at one of the stalls,” Aleksy said. “They served it in the tiniest of cups but, by God, it makes your hair stand on end!” He turned to Idzi. “Now, as for you, just what are you doing here?”
“Lord Halicki requested my presence on his journey here. It was either me or your brother Damian. And your father felt I was more dispensable, I gathered.”
“Don’t go feeling sorry for yourself.”
“I don’t. You know I don’t.”
Aleksy smiled. “I know. How are my parents and Damian?”
“All good, but worried, like everyone, about the state of affairs.”
“Has Lord Halicki been commissioned here—to await the king?”
“No, he’s going from here to join his old friend, General Lubomirski who’s to attach his forces to Adam Sieniawski’s army and move toward Vienna from a different direction.”
“I hope they are quicker about it than the king seems to be. And are you on your own time until you go back to Halicz?”
“I am! Free to lie about and see the sights.”
“What’s the master’s business here, then?” Aleksy nodded toward the tent. “Here to check up on his sons?”
“No.” A blank expression came over Idzi’s face, at least one Aleksy could not decipher. Glancing at the tent that housed the sleeping Halicki brothers, his voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s come to attend to some financial business because he’s not staying for the wedding.”
“Wedding?” Aleksy snapped, his head already reeling. “What wedding?”
“Why, his daughter’s.”
Aleksy was on his feet at once, turning away, blood rushing to his face. This was not possible. The ground beneath him seemed to move.
“Chrystus—you didn’t know?” Idzi asked. “Ludwik here said you talked to her.”
Aleksy kept his back to the others. He hadn’t provided Ludwik with any details of the meeting. He spoke now in a tense, hushed tone. “She… she didn’t say anything, not a word. Are you sure? Maybe it’s Roman’s wedding… or Marek’s?” He was grasping at straws, he knew. Had it been one of the brothers, he would have heard about it.
“No,” Idzi said cautiously.
“And the financial business—you mean the dowry?”
“Yes… I’m sorry, Alek.”
Aleksy drew in breath, turned back to Idzi. Krystyna’s behavior the day before made perfect sense now. “No need, my friend.” He dashed the remainder of the mug’s contents onto the ground. “I need to go about my hunting now. Care to join me, Idzi? Or are you tired from your journey?”
Idzi jumped up, swallowed down the chicory-coffee concoction, and handed his mug to Ludwik, whose face mirrored his in like concern for Aleksy’s unhappiness. He attempted a smile. “Me? When did you know me to be tired?”
The two left Ludwik to care for the camp and feed Roman and Marek upon their awakening.
We’re not to meet again, she had said. We can’t.
Aleksy never felt the need to lose himself in his archery skills more than at this moment.
Krystyna awoke early to the news that her father had arrived from Halicz. She greeted him with a smile and three kisses, gifting her mother and Lord and Lady Nardolska with smiles less genuine. Monika, the cook herself, saw to the breakfast buffet, supported by a young serving girl.
As the conversation turned to the war against the Ottoman Empire, Krystyna stayed silent, thinking about Fabian, who had already left the house. It was her duty to marry him. It was the way of things, as her mother had told her so many times. Love would come later. But—would it? Her thoughts kept being interrupted by the vision of Aleksy’s face as she left him—so serious, so earnest. She had gone to sleep thinking that she would not meet him at noon. She couldn’t bear another meeting. How could she tell him that the marriage was just days away?
But by the time she climbed the stairs to her room, she had made her decision. She would tell him herself. She would meet him a final time—and she would tell him.
At mid-morning Krystyna descended the stairs to the ground level, wondering why her mother had sent a maid to ask for her to come down. She opened one of the mullioned doors and entered the dining hall.
“What’s all this?” she asked.
Her mother sat at the far end of the polished oak table that was scarcely visible now under a vast array of paper of all kinds, shapes, and colors, as well several scissors of various sizes, including sheep shears.
“We’re to do wycinanki today, Krystyna.”
“But—why? Christmas is months away.”
“Ah, but your wedding is not!”
“Paper-cuts for my wedding?”
“Yes. Oh, Krystyna, with this wedding being done with such haste, so many of our beloved customs will have to be set aside—no groomsmen or bridesmaids. No young married ladies to laugh with you, prepare your bed and then test its strength by jumping on it.”
“Mother, please! I don’t care about any of that.”
“But I do and you’re the only daughter I’ll see married off. I thought we could do some paper-cuts to decorate the house and the buffet table. You know, Lady Nardolska is planning a wonderful and delicious spread and vodka from Gdańsk—Goldwasser Vodka! They say it’s the drink of kings!”
“Drunken kings.”
“Now, Krystyna, come and sit down, will
you? You hardly ate anything at breakfast. It’s a case of the nerves, I told Lady Nardolska. I thought wycinanki would be just the thing for you to relax. You were always good at it.”
Krystyna felt like telling her that she had done so much of it with the nuns at school she had come to dislike it. Instead, however, she glanced at the clock and sat down. “I’ll work at it until half past eleven.”
“Excellent!”
“But for a wedding—what subject? Certainly not two squirrels or roosters.”
“A rooster and a hen!” her mother said with a laugh.
It was good to see a smile on her mother’s face, so Krystyna could not help but laugh, too. She picked up paper and the shears. “I’ll do a pattern on white paper for a man and then a woman. I’ll place them against a simple black background.”
“No color?”
“Simplicity is best, Mother.”
“Very well—we can place them near the kołacz. I asked Lady Nardolska if we should send for Klara to make the wedding bread, but she said that was unnecessary and that her cook is quite capable. If she hadn’t appeared insulted, I would have insisted. After all, Klara’s bread has never cracked in the cooking, and you know what they say—”
“‘If the wedding bread cracks, the marriage will crack, as well.’”
“Exactly! It’s all in the quality of the ingredients, Klara says. I doubt that the Nardolski cook is her equal when it comes to fashioning dough to make the beautiful rosettes, crosses, swirls, and plaits for the top of it, but there must be a wedding bread. You know what else they say—”
Krystyna sighed. “I do, mother. ‘Without a kołacz, there is no wedding.’ Now you must let me concentrate.”
The Boy Who Wanted Wings Page 16