“One more thing—I’m not leaving anything to chance. I’m going to address the issue with the cook today. Right now, in fact. I’m going to ask her to attempt a kołacz sometime prior to the wedding.” With that little pronouncement, her mother left the room.
Two wedding breads, Krystyna thought. I should probably think myself lucky. But she knew she had no time for self-indulgence. The hands of the tall clock in the corner were moving just as surely as was the wheel of Fortuna. She could not let time slip by. She had to meet Aleksy.
And so Krystyna began to create the paper-cut of the woman first. Her shears commenced to clip at the white paper, starting with boots that would appear dark against a black foil and then a full skirt design with squares alternately black and white, a blouse of white, a white head scarf—its two scalloped ends resting on her back, like wings—small hands, face peering up. She imagined that later she would have time to create a tree as well as birds for the woman to be watching, but for now—the clock chimed eleven—she started work on her male figure.
She began with black boots again, white trousers with double black stripes moving vertically up to a short black and white coat, head uplifted under a simple cap, arms outstretched—as if to the woman—with one hand bracing a scythe that rested on his shoulder. And later she would fashion a haystack, dog, birds, and hints of a little house behind a picket fence.
Krystyna looked to the corner of the room. The clock read half past eleven. She would have to hurry. Her mother entered just as she pushed her chair out to get up.
“The cook has agreed to bake a trial bread. It’s a relief to me.—Oh! Let me see what you’ve done!” Her mother came and stood behind her.
Some moments elapsed before her mother drew in breath to say, “Why the girl looks like a peasant, Krystyna, all nicely cut—very nicely done—but she seems to be dressed plainly, like a peasant. And the boy—with that scythe—”
“They are peasants, Mother. Wycinanki is an art created by peasants to decorate their simple dwellings and glassless windows. Were you expecting two of the szlachta in fancy clothes?”
“Well, yes, I imagine I was.” She looked at the figures again. “Oh, well,” she sighed, “we can talk about this later. Right now, we have to take a little walk.”
“A walk?” Krystyna looked to the clock. “Mother, I don’t have time.”
“You have something better to do than select a material for your dress?—What, I should like to know?”
“You said nothing of this. How was I to know?”
“It was the cook that told me about this merchant at the Cloth Hall. He’s there only until early afternoon. Now, hurry. Come get your hat. We don’t want to miss him.”
Krystyna was left standing at the table, blood thrumming at her temples. Aleksy would be waiting for her. He’ll think I don’t care. Her eyes rested on the male figure holding a scythe and suddenly she realized what she had done. She had created a paper-cut of Aleksy, one not so very different from the boy in the field she had seen that day from the carriage.
A full minute passed. Perhaps it’s best, she thought. Perhaps it’s best if he thinks I don’t care.
“Krystyna!” her mother called.
With her left hand, Krystyna picked up the paper-cut of the young farmer, and her right hand retrieved the shears. Deftly, she cut and cut—until nothing was left but shreds upon the table.
Pivoting, she ran from the room.
At the deep sounding of the Wawel Cathedral bells for the noon Angelus, Aleksy stood, hopeful yet anxious, at the confluence of Grodzka Street with the Market Square—where he had begged her to meet him. And as the bells of the myriad Catholic churches in Kraków started to peal in support, people everywhere stopped, many falling to their knees in reverent prayer. When the tolling ceased and citizens and soldiers were stirred into movement again, he realized—with no help from a gypsy—that Krystyna was not coming.
Nonetheless, he waited half of an hour. He moved away then, passing the stone steps of the cathedral.
“No visit today, my young soldier?” Father Franciszek inquired.
“Not today,” Aleksy said, barely able to get the words out. He did not turn, resisting eye contact because he could not return the priest’s good humor.
“Have you had the miracle, Aleksy? I’ve been praying for it.”
A lump came into Aleksy’s throat. He could not respond. He kept walking, mindlessly so, for he soon found himself in the Cloth Hall, impervious at first to the jostling, noise, and commotion as people shopped and bargained, often in high, strident tones. Occasionally, a shopkeeper at his stall would nod at him, so familiar had he become in recent days. He thought of the time he had spent in his search. He had been so naïve, so stupid, he thought.
And then he saw her. Krystyna—dressed in blue—and her mother were at the far end of the building, inspecting bolts of cloth. He stood, still as death. Was he to go to her, mother or no? Or was he to turn and hurry away, obeying her voiced wish that they not meet again? Perhaps that was best, for her and for himself.
In retrospect, he would not remember making a decision, only that his feet propelled him forward.
He was but two stalls away when she noticed him. Her face blanched and her forehead perceptibly nudged back the blue bonnet. She raised her hand as if she were a witch empowered to stop him. At her gesture, he did stop. Her mother was caught up in haggling with the Persian shopkeeper.
Aleksy nodded in the direction of a nearby stall that was more of a tent, the side of which obstructed the view from the cloth merchant. She understood the intention but she resisted, giving a fearful shake of her head.
Aleksy called her bluff, moving several paces forward, his conviction clear. Fear flooded into her eyes. She held her hand up again. He halted, having no wish to speak to her in front of Lady Halicka.
Krystyna was now saying something to her mother, who, embroiled with the Persian in a bargaining over a bolt of ivory silk, waved her away. She took the opportunity to steal over to the tented stall where a potter sat cross-legged, turning a wheel, shaping a large bowl with his hands.
Aleksy joined her there. Immersed in his work, the old Polish craftsman gave them no more than a glance. They stood, face to face.
“Aleksy, I told you that we could not meet again.” She spoke in a low, serious tone.
“But you didn’t tell me everything, did you?”
“What?”
“The silk—is it to be your wedding dress?”
“Who… who told you?” She thought for a moment. “Oh, Idzi!”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I… I just couldn’t. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“Do you think running off and giving no reason hurts less?”
“All right, then! You’re right to chastise me. I was taking the easier way out for me. But, Alek, don’t think that makes my caring any less. And I did intend to meet you today, but Mother had other plans, as you can see.”
This statement and the use of his diminutive took his breath away. “You do care?”
“Alek, it is impossible for us—”
“You do care? Answer me!”
“Yes!”
“Love?”
She nodded.
“Say it.”
The emerald eyes locked onto his. “I love you, Alek.”
“Then… how can you— ? ”
“Do you think I have a choice? Do you?” Her face flamed red. “My parents promised me to this man when we were children. I won’t go against them. I can’t.”
“And so you’ll marry someone you don’t love.—Jezus Chrystus! Who is he?”
“Lord Fabian Nardolski. I tried to demonize him in my mind, but I can’t. He’s a good man.”
“A lord? With a we
althy family?”
Krystyna nodded.
“And a Pole.”
“Of course.”
“Of course?” Aleksy stiffened. “Certainly not a Tatar, then? So that’s how it is.”
Krystyna touched his arm. “That’s not how I meant it. His name is what I meant, you goose! How could a man with a name like Fabian Nardolski be anything but Polish?”
“My name is Aleksy Gazdecki!—Deceiving, isn’t it?”
“The point is yours, I admit. You’re Polish in name and spirit.”
“But not in appearance? Not in blood?”
“You should be proud of being a Tatar.”
“I am proud!—But I’m not of the szlachta. No land, no title for me. That’s a problem, too. Isn’t it?”
“Perhaps not in the way you think. People like us don’t marry for love, Aleksy. They don’t.” Her hand fell away. Her eyes averted his. “I need to get back to my mother.”
“No!” Aleksy took hold of her hand and brought her close to him. “Don’t do it, Krysia. Don’t!”
“I have no alternative. The plans are in motion, as you see. Next week at this time, I’ll be married.”
“Not to him,” he said through clenched teeth. Then louder: “Make different plans! Marry me, Krysia!”
Whether she thought him sound in mind or completely insane, he could not tell. In any case, she was struck silent.
Aleksy kissed her hand, looked up into eyes that bled tears. “Marry me,” he repeated. “I know a priest. I can arrange it.”
“And then what?”
“We’ll forge our way—with or without your parents’ approval. Can you live in a cottage with me or do you prefer a museum with your lord?”
Krystyna gave out with her little laugh. “That’s just what he called his home—a museum.” She paused and a kind of steeliness came into her eyes. “Listen, Aleksy, you’re going off to war. How am I to live? You have no cottage and I couldn’t bear to live at home even if my parents allowed it. No, we must face reality. They say this war could be a catastrophe for all of Europe. In the end, none of this may matter.”
“I’ll keep myself safe. I’ll come back to you, you’ll see.”
“He said that, too.”
“Good! Then in some ways he and I are on equal ground. I’ll talk to the priest. We’ll find a way. Now ask yourself, who do you want to see returning to you once the Ottomans are defeated?”
“You seem very certain of success.”
“I’m Polish in spirit, like you said.”
“Krystyna!” The high-pitched call came from Lady Halicka.
“I must go,” Krystyna said, her face a mask of worry.
“Listen to me, Krystyna. I’ll make the plans. I’ll send you a note as to the time and place.”
“Aleksy, I can’t—”
“Krystyna!” Lady Halicka’s voice registered panic. And it seemed very close.
Aleksy put his finger on her lips. “Don’t speak, just nod. I’ll send a note. Will you come to me?”
Krystyna’s eyes demonstrated her love, her heart’s wish, but did they show the derring-do his plan would require? If she were to decline, all would be lost. He would not attempt to see her again.
“Krystyna!” came the call. Lady Halicka was but a pace away.
Krystyna pulled away and in doing so, nodded. At least he would tell himself over and over that she had done so. Aleksy turned in the opposite direction and dropped to the ground, seating himself cross-legged opposite the pottery artisan, his eyes absently following the revolutions of the bowl on the potter’s wheel.
“There you are!” Lady Halicka said, stepping into the stall. “You gave me a good scare. Did you not hear me calling?”
“I’m sorry, Mother. I was mesmerized by the potter’s wheel.”
Aleksy imagined Lady Halicka’s eyes taking in the merchant—and the backside of a soldier’s retainer who held his head down. He held his breath, afraid that she would surmise who he was.
“Come along, then. I’ve struck a good deal with that crafty Persian.”
Aleksy waited a few minutes, his mind replaying that nod of her head. Had she been agreeing to his proposal—or had she nodded merely to effect an exit? When his eyes came up to meet the eyes of the potter—light blue under hooded lids—the man gave him a wide, toothless smile of approval. His wheel was stopping now and Aleksy realized that the clay bowl was hardening into a lopsided work of art. Evidently, he had been silently following the conversation all along.
Well, Aleksy thought, at least we have the approval of one.
Eighteen
King Jan Sobieski finally arrived in Kraków on 29 July. Great jubilation in the city erupted upon the entrance of the royal cavalcade, the length, breadth, and color of which Aleksy could not have imagined. In the short time at Kraków he had learned, however, that there were a number of naysayers commenting on the king’s tardiness, some Polish officers among them. Why had he waited so long to leave Warsaw? Why had he not gone directly toward Vienna, where the threat was centered, directing those at Kraków to meet him there? Why did he take his time coming to Kraków? Was a stop to pray at Częstochowa an absolute must? Was it necessary to bring the queen and her entire retinue? Aleksy learned that such dissonance among strong-minded Poles—relating even to a beloved king himself—was what was commonly called the Polish Way.
Following the arrival, criticism was again levied, this time because the king did not immediately take the great army on the road to Vienna. Censure grew as days passed. Word had it that the celebration of St. Laurence Day, 10 August, the day that ushered in the celebration of the harvest, would be the pivotal date and that they would leave shortly thereafter.
Aleksy was glad for the extra time and used it well. It took three meetings with Father Franciszek to convince him to perform the marriage ceremony and to do so in complete secrecy. It would take place in his rectory office immediately after the St. Laurence Day ceremonies in Wawel Cathedral. Father Franciszek had also been able to obtain placement in a convent for Krystyna should her family not accept her once she informs them that she has married a Tatar. She would need a safe harbor. Should it come to that, Aleksy prayed that the war against the Ottomans would be short and his return to his wife soon. His wife! The word made him shiver out of an abundance of emotions—pride, fear, anticipation, and amazement.
Certainty, he admitted to himself, played no part. During this interim, Krystyna went unseen. Neither Aleksy, nor Ludwik, nor Idzi managed to sight her out and about in the Market Square. Idzi, who was staying in camp—and enjoying his freedom—went on a little espionage mission to the Nardolski town house, where he learned from servants that Krystyna had been barred from leaving the house. Having been caught attempting to slip out, she now merited prisoner status and was closely watched. Other news was even more disturbing: preparations went on for her wedding; it was to take place on 12 August.
Well, Aleksy reasoned, they would take her to the celebration in the cathedral on the tenth. That was a certainty. At least he prayed so. Everything depended upon it. From there, he figured that she should be able to escape and go to the good Father Franciszek’s rectory. The scheme needed to work as accurately as the great cathedral clock.
Aleksy’s hunting skills had brought him a bit of money from others in the camp so that he could have hired a local scribe to write the instructions to Krystyna; he preferred, however, to purchase paper, pen, and ink from him and write them himself—and did so painstakingly. Not only did he want the handwriting to be his own, but he was also afraid to trust the contents of the message to a scribe, who might envision a much higher fee coming from Krystyna’s parents. He sealed the letter with beeswax from a taper. That he had no signet bearing a family coat of arms gave him pause for a moment to reflect on the chasm that sep
arated him from the Halicki family. Finished with the task, he realized his hands were shaking. Good God! Was he asking too much of Krystyna? Was he out of his mind to expect her to sacrifice everything for him?
Krystyna did care for him. She did! He managed to dispel his second thoughts and, at the entrance to Grodzka Street, he handed the letter over to Idzi, in whom he had confided the details of the scheme. The dwarf had some freedom coming and going within the Nardolski town house and would be able to safely deliver it.
“Do you think I am crazy for doing this, Idzi?”
Idzi looked up with his saucer-like blue eyes. “Crazy in love, as I told you once.”
“But what about—this?”
“If the girl is willing, I always say—”
“Be serious, man!”
“Well, I also told you once there is the changeable and the unchangeable, and Alek, my friend, I think you are about to challenge that theory.” Idzi gave a little bow. “If I were to find a hat of any substance to fit my oversized head, I would doff it now. Hats off to you!”
Aleksy laughed. “You are incorrigible. Incorrigible Idzi I should call you. Now, keep the letter well hidden in your żupan, Idzi,” he warned, “until the moment you can safely manage to get it to Lady Krystyna.”
“Of course.”
“Should you be found with it, destroy it at once, no matter what happens.”
“I’ll eat it”
“Good lad!”
“I’m no more a lad than you are.”
“Point made. Now, go.”
Aleksy watched Idzi move down a busy Grodzka Street until his small form was lost amidst an oncoming crowd whose destination was the Market Square.
He sighed. Will I be able to transform the unchangeable into the changeable? By the time he had walked back to camp, he had shut out any doubts.
“Krystyna, come quickly! Hurry!” Krystyna’s mother stood at her door, motioning her forward.
The Boy Who Wanted Wings Page 17