The Boy Who Wanted Wings

by James Conroyd Martin

  “What is it, Mother?”

  “The kołacz that’s what it is! You know!”

  “The trial one?”

  “Yes, yes, now come along.”

  When they reached the kitchen, a smiling and proud Monika took them to a side work table. As if unveiling a work of art, she withdrew a towel that had been covering the cooling bread.

  “Oh, my! It’s lovely,” Krystyna’s mother trilled. “Look, Krystyna, why the rosettes and leaves are perfect. And the top—not even the tiniest crack!”

  Krystyna smiled at the cook; her mother’s overt enthusiasm seemed quite enough for the occasion.

  “Would you like to see tonight’s honey cakes?” Monika asked, nodding at a table across the room, where her young assisting maid, Ruta, was working.

  “Oh, yes. It’s too bad we won’t taste this tonight, isn’t it, Krystyna? But that would be bad luck. We must wait for the official one which will be a bit larger. Still, Monika, I insist you bring it out after the meal to show everyone.”

  “Larger?” Krystyna asked Monika after her mother had sauntered off. “This seems a good size for what is to be a small gathering.”

  Monika nodded, whispering in a conspiratorial manner, “To accommodate the gift your father has brought. It’s to be placed inside the bread.”

  “Gift?”

  The cook covertly looked to Lady Halicka, who was giving high praise for the night’s desserts, then leaned in to Krystyna, her deep blue eyes glistening. “Yes, and you didn’t hear it from me.”

  “What is to be in the bread?”

  Monika bent over the table and covered the kołacz with the towel. Her answer came in a whisper, hardly more than a breath. “A hundred ducats.”

  Krystyna aborted a gasp. Her dowry—or at least part of it.

  Roman sat with his brother in the Nardolski dining hall. The entrée of ham stewed with cucumbers was a refreshing change from the typical fare of fowl and venison Aleksy provided at camp. Everyone was present—his parents, the Nardolskis, and Fabian—all but Krystyna.

  At an opportune moment, when everyone seemed to be involved in conversation, Roman drew his mother’s attention and leaned toward her. “Are you certain she’s in her room?”

  “She says she has a headache.” Lady Halicka’s thin lips widened and her stone-gray eyes gathered a bit of luster. “You needn’t worry. We’ve done everything but place a harness on her.—But, Romek, are the streets so dangerous?”

  “For young girls like her, yes.”

  It was true. Girls, pretty or no, could be snatched off the street by drunken soldiers or men who secretly and lucratively dealt in the Eastern slave trade. But, more to the point, Roman remembered finding Aleksy, forlorn at the top of the street, and he wanted to make certain there would be no more happenstance meetings—like at Halicz—with his sometimes foolish sister.

  Dessert consisted of baked honey cakes emblazoned with reliefs of the Nardolski coat of arms—a wolf bearing a cross. A nice touch, he thought.

  Once the cakes had been consumed, Fabian sat forward in his chair. “I want to say that we have more to celebrate than my upcoming marriage to Krystyna. A great honor has been visited upon your daughter and my future wife, Lord and Lady Halicki. My father will provide the details.”

  Lord Ryszard Nardolski smiled, something he should do more often, Roman noted, for the smile took attention away from the long, pitted face. He cleared his throat and in stentorian tones announced: “I have managed to attain for my soon-to-be daughter-in-law the honor of wearing the harvest crown on St. Laurence Day.”

  The table went quiet for a few moments. “In the cathedral?” asked Marek, voicing others’ reactions. “With the king present?”

  Lord Nardolski nodded. “Indeed. It will be the king himself who will accept her offering.”

  Lady Halicka gasped and her face flushed with delight.

  “The poor dear was so taken aback when I told her, little more than an hour ago,” Lady Irena Nardolska added, fingering the diamonds at her neck, “that she was too shy to come down to sup with us.”

  “And no wonder!” Roman’s mother cried. As Roman turned to her, he caught out of the corner of his eye a small figure passing by the dining hall’s mullioned doors. Was it a child? he wondered. And then as he tried to reprocess the image in his mind, he thought the figure might well have been Idzi. What would he be doing moving about the town house like a specter?

  As amazement over the honor bestowed on Krystyna played out in lively comments and toasts, Roman excused himself from the table, passed through the glassed doors and moved toward the staircase. He took the stairs two at a time, coming up to the first floor just in time to see at the far end of the hall the figure move toward the shadowy servants’ backstairs. Roman ran at once to the stairwell, but found it empty. He listened. There was no sound, nothing to indicate whether the small figure had moved down the stairs—or up. Had it been a child? Whose? Had it been Idzi?

  In any case, Roman had been eluded by someone. He had no intention of searching the servants’ stairwell. He could just imagine the Nardolski kitchen servants gawking at him. He turned back now, moving toward the main stairs. He would pass Krystyna’s room and gave brief consideration to knocking at her door. As he moved closer, however, he chose not to do so; she was probably napping. Bearing out that theory was the fact that she had yet to retrieve a note that had been left beneath her door.

  Returning to the dining hall, Roman found everyone silent, unusually so. “What did I miss?” he asked, seating himself. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, I’m certain it’s nothing to worry about,” Lady Nardolska said, her soft tone directed at his mother. “It won’t happen a second time and that‘s when it will matter.”

  He looked to his mother, whose face had gone white as swan’s down. She turned to him and nodded at the trial wedding bread she had exultantly told him about earlier. It seemed that the cook had only just unveiled it moments before. The cook stood nearby, her face fiery red. He leaned over to take a good look at the contents of the pan.

  The highly decorative kołacz now displayed a wide crack, moving through its middle, from one end to the other, like a line of demarcation.

  “Mission accomplished,” Idzi said.

  “You gave it to her?”

  “Not quite.”

  Aleksy was instantly on guard. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, someone was coming upstairs fairly close behind. I had no time to knock at her door. I pushed your letter under it.”

  “Then what?”

  “I hightailed it out of there, down the servants’ stairs this time.”

  “Good God! You used the family stairs to go up to her bedchamber?”

  Idzi shrugged. “My friend Ruta—the cook’s assistant, she is—said going the back way would raise some eyebrows among the kitchen help. Besides, the entire family was at supper.”

  “Then who was coming up behind?”

  “Don’t know. Sorry, Alek, if I didn’t handle it properly.”

  “No, you did fine—I hope. Thanks, Idzi. And now we wait for St. Laurence Day.”

  “There’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “Well, after the family’s supper, two of the maids collecting the dessert dishes came into the kitchen with some surprising news.”

  “What?”

  “It seems your Lady Krystyna has been given the nod to wear the harvest crown.”

  “What?”

  “I said—”

  “By God’s wounds, I heard you!—At the cathedral?”

  “Seems so.”

  “Holy Chrystus!” Aleksy’s head spun. St. Laurence Day traditionally opened the harvest season which featured the wearing of a harvest crown by a young maid
en who would ceremoniously present it at High Mass. Aleksy felt the muscles of his stomach tighten. All eyes would be on her. How was she to get away and meet him at the rectory? Were the things that were unchangeable working against him? Would it always be so?

  But the more he gave thought to this little twist in his scheme, the more he came to think this might be a good thing. At least he knew she would be allowed to attend. That had been no little concern.

  Nineteen

  On St. Laurence Day, Aleksy arose long before dawn, put on his dark blue żupan which he had cleaned to the best of his ability the day before. His brown boots were well polished. For his own part in the scheme, his greatest fear was that he would be turned away from Wawel Cathedral, which most certainly would be packed to overflowing. The nobles—magnates and szlachta—ecclesiasts, and army officers would be promptly admitted, and it would not surprise him if there was but a little space left to the common people like him. He meant to be there early.

  He left camp before anyone had awakened. He arrived at Father Franciszek’s rectory as day was dawning but was told he had already gone out. Where could he be? Called to a family home, the nun who acted as his secretary said. So the first part of his plan—to confirm the priest’s part in the scheme—had misfired. He had to trust that the priest would be true to his word. He would not wait for him to return. He had to find his way into the cathedral as early as possible so as to guarantee his not being locked out.

  This part of his plan was a success. He was among the first, slipping into the still dark, cavernous building as cathedral servants were replenishing votive candles, placing fresh flowers upon the altars in the many side chapels, and rolling out a red carpet down the center aisle toward the main gilded altar, which featured a painting of the Crucifixion and a high canopy of black marble supported by four columns.

  Aleksy moved down the side aisle on the north, passing the entrance to the clock tower and several chapels until he came to the chapel at the transept. Here he stopped, for this vantage point would provide a clear view of activity at the main altar. The dais holding the king and queen’s thrones were on the south side, facing him. Perfect! He waited. Time passed slowly.

  A muffled commotion of boots on marble arose. He turned to see more than a dozen men coming up the north aisle. They were passing him now, turning left toward the entrance to the Zygmunt Tower. Father Franciszek had told him it takes twelve to ring the five massive bells in that tower and still more—he could not recall how many—to ring the three smaller bells in another tower.

  Stepping out from the side chapel, Aleksy tapped the last bell ringer on the shoulder. The heavy-set man turned about, his high forehead wrinkled in curiosity. “Have you seen Father Franciszek this morning?” Aleksy asked.

  “No,” the man said in a husky attempt at a whisper, “he’s often at the door to see us start our day—but not so today.” The man nodded and moved off to catch up with the others.

  No morning masses were offered this day, not on the main altar nor in the many chapels. By eight in the morning the cathedral was being cleared of all visitors. This was as Aleksy anticipated. He quickly ducked into the entryway of the Zygmunt Tower and held his breath. Those servants evicting worshippers, making no exceptions, passed him by without notice.

  Time dragged on with him huddled there like a thief, every fifteen minutes marked by the clanging of the eight bells. Soon, the cathedral began to fill with szlachta and citizens of some stature, as well as nuns, canons, seminarians. He returned to the little chapel area, making certain to look as inconspicuous as possible. Large areas were roped off for the later arrival of magnates, palatines, generals, bishops, priests, and anyone who held sway within the city or Commonwealth. Many of these would march in procession behind King Jan III Sobieski and his French wife, Queen Maria Casimire, to whom the people sometimes referred as Marysieńka, the king’s sobriquet for her.

  Citizens and soldiers were allowed in at ten o’clock and they filled every inch of the huge structure that had not been cordoned off. Aleksy fought to hold his viewing space behind the rope that separated the little chapel from the north aisle. People filled in behind him, tighter than a school of fish.

  The procession began promptly at eleven. Led by a choir and an Italian prelate that Aleksy would later find out was Papal Nuncio Pallavicini, the king and queen entered, their bearing regal, their faces somber. No one spoke or even whispered. The only sounds came from the voices in the choir, clear and perfect notes pealing and splashing off the stone walls of the chamber. The royal couple moved slowly and with great pomp toward the main altar, then stepped to the right. After ten or twelve steps, the king aided his wife onto the dais. They stood in front of two carved chairs cushioned in red velvet as the nearly endless train of intelligentsia, military, and nobility filled the reserved sections.

  Aleksy saw the Halicki family arrive, led by Roman. In their midst were an older, richly dressed and jeweled couple and between them was a young, handsome soldier. He immediately intuited that this was the Nardolski family. The handsome Polish soldier was the man promised to Krystyna. Like a wave of nausea, jealousy washed over Aleksy. How could he, with his dark looks and almond eyes, compete with such a specimen of the szlachta? He felt a fool.

  His insecurity was forced aside for the moment by a greater concern. Where is Krystyna? She was not seated among her family members. Why? Of course, he reasoned, she might be placed elsewhere because of the role she was to play in the ceremony. But, on the other hand, what if she had refused to come? Perhaps she declared herself ill so that she would not have to face him. What if she had regretted at once that little nod she made at the Cloth Hall, agreeing to follow his directives, agreeing to marry him.

  Breathe, he told himself. Breathe. Believe.

  Aleksy attempted to allay his fears, focusing instead on the king. His armor, fitting for the occasion, covered the wide expanse of his chest and belly while the sleeves of his royal blue żupan went unarmored. Over this raiment he wore a long, black velvet kontusz, the shoulders swathed in red velvet. He carried a plumed helmet. The queen—his Marysieńka—wore a deep red brocaded gown with a matching hat that held black plumes. Her cloak was purple, trimmed with the whitest ermine. Her delicate features, framed by a mass of dark, dark hair, belied her years and seemingly numberless pregnancies.

  Aleksy’s attention returned to King Jan Sobieski, assessing him in light of the gossip that had preceded his arrival. He was indeed stout, his face full and fleshy. The receding, curly silvery-brown hair and the great drooping moustache brought Aleksy to conclude that he looked all of his fifty-one years. Were his fighting, triumphant years behind him, as he had heard Roman and others suggest? Judging by his stalwart and commanding stand, as well as that of his wife—who, people said, impassioned the king with strong national and personal ambition—he would acquit himself admirably. At least Aleksy prayed it be so. The nation and Europe depended upon him to fend off the onslaught of Turks.

  As the day began to heat, so did the swarm of bodies in Wawel Cathedral. Incense hung lifeless in the air and nostrils, inciting occasional sneezing. The Mass ran long, as High Masses do, and every so often a commotion arose when someone fainted and had to be carried out.

  Where is Krystyna? Where is she? Aleksy fought off a cold wave of panic.

  And then came time for the sermon. Gasps were heard as Papal Nuncio Opizio Pallavicini himself stepped forward to give it in a broken—but forgiven—Polish.

  But where was Father Franciszek? Surely he had returned from his early duty. Was he somewhere in the background, stage managing this historic event?

  “Pope Innocent XI sends his blessings to Poles and to all Christians on this heavy day,” Pallavicini began. “The Holy Pontiff gives, this tenth day of August, 1683, indulgences to any and all men who go forth to battle in this Holy War against the Ottomans.” Exuberant murmurs rustled th
rough the crowd. As the sermon went on, warning of the Ottomans’ threat to the entire continent while elucidating the tenets of Christianity, Aleksy felt electricity flowing through the crowd. The people were greatly moved, politically and religiously. After the sermon, the king and queen stepped down from the dais and processed to the altar steps. The Papal Nuncio, standing on the first step, blessed a very reverent and resolved king and weeping queen.

  Then, as the royal couple returned to their places on the dais, a true tenor lifted his voice and began singing the Bogurodzica—Mother of God—a patriotic hymn sung for centuries at the installation of kings and often before going to war.

  Virgin, Mother of God, God-famed Mary!

  Ask Thy Son, our Lord, God-named Mary,

  To have mercy upon us and hand it over to us!

  Kyrie eleison!

  Son of God, for Thy Baptist’s sake,

  Hear the voices, fulfill the pleas we make!

  Listen to the prayer we say,

  For what we ask, give us today:

  Life on earth free of vice;

  After life: paradise!

  Kyrie eleison!

  As the song went on, the beautiful tenor voice was tempered by the voices of thousands, and by the end of the age-old hymn, few eyes were dry.

  It was at the Offertory that one of the Polish celebrants spoke of St. Laurence and a soft buzz of wonder among the crowd began at the distant vestibule, rippling forward in a wave parallel to the soundless steps of someone moving with a measured pace up the main aisle.

  Aleksy could not yet see the figure, but he knew. He knew!

  And then she came into view. She was taking one step, pausing, then bringing the other foot forward, continuing her slow solo procession until at last—as she came close to the altar steps—Aleksy could see her full profile.