The Boy Who Wanted Wings

by James Conroyd Martin

  His life seemed little enough of importance.

  The next day, 22 August, a grand review of the troops, wagons, and cannon was held with King Sobieski and General Caraffa officiating on a raised platform. Cavalry—including hussars—and infantry were estimated at thirty thousand. While the cavalry was supplied by and included noblemen, their horses, raiment, and accoutrements richly varied, colorful, and impressive, the infantry was that much less so with its attempt at uniforms stymied by faded, threadbare clothing and paper-thin soled boots worn from other campaigns. The infantry was kept the farthest from the viewing stand and from General Caraffa, who would send ahead to Charles of Lorraine assurances of the Polish army’s readiness in numbers, expertise, and equipment.

  Aleksy stood to the side with Ludwik and Idzi, shielding his eyes against the morning red glare of the sun. Only later would he learn that in a more private moment the king had said goodbye to his Marysieńka and her retinue of ladies, servants, and soldiers, who along with carriages and wagons, were being sent on their way to Kraków. He learned, too, that Krystyna was seated in the queen’s fine closed carriage.

  So short had been his reunion with Krystyna that only now did he recall how his heart had swelled at the sight of her, how his future had glittered before him in rainbow colors. But he had not been allowed even a moment alone with her—for an embrace or kiss—before hope was crushed.

  His last memory of Krystyna—Krysia—would be of the queen hustling her quickly away from him.

  Twenty-five

  “What’s keeping them if he’s so damn good with the bow?” Roman asked. Aleksy, Ludwik, and Idzi had gone hunting. The sky was quickly darkening. Campfires began to dot the ruined fields like the appearance of stars in the night-sky.

  “Game could be scarce when thousands are out foraging,” Marek said. “What, do you think he would desert?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No, and I don’t think you do, either.”

  “He’s a Tatar, isn’t he?”

  “Roman, did you believe Aleksy when he said he had nothing to do with Krystyna’s jilting of Fabian—or that he even knew she was disguised as a camp-follower until that moment we came upon them?”

  “I believe nothing from him. And you?”

  “He seemed credible.”

  “And you’re gullible, brother. But what does it matter? One way or another, he’ll pay. Somehow.”

  “What do you mean? Remember, he’s my retainer, not yours. I need him! And you promised the king—”

  “The king? He certainly manages to get decent lodgings, doesn’t he? This is the second monastery in a row. His bed will be soft, and you can bet those monks are kowtowing to him as I speak.”

  “At least we’re moving a bit faster by day.”

  “You’re right on that count—a bit.” He spit into the campfire. “And as for retainers, my lord brother, if Father hadn’t been so tight-fisted with every złoty, we’d each have at least two.”

  “Two złotys?” Marek asked, smiling.

  “Retainers, you bastard!”

  Krystyna sat in the moving carriage dressed in an elegant pink gown and satin-covered slippers that the queen’s Mistress of the Robes, Madame Heloise, had commandeered for her from the youngest lady-in-waiting. She would gladly wear the peasant garb she had been forced to give up if she could somehow change the outcome of the events a few days before. Her yearning for Aleksy had not abated. What future was there without him?

  She watched Queen Marysieńka—in blue brocade—dozing on the bench across from her. The carriage trundled on, minute to minute, hour to hour. How much time had passed—two, three days? They were endless. Highest ranking of the queen’s ladies present in the coach, Madame Heloise shared the bench with the queen, while two ladies-in-waiting bookended Krystyna now, to no little discomfort. Conversation was in French and Krystyna mentally gave a reluctant thanks to the nuns for the strong foundation she had been given in the language that was spoken in the courts of most of Europe’s capitals. However, the queen’s ladies spoke very little. Their silence and sour faces bespoke their resentment of the interloper. In daylight they worked at their embroidery so silently and intently that Krystyna thought she would go mad. She had been offered a hoop and had politely refused. How she hated embroidery, always had, ever since her convent confinement when it had been punishment for her erring ways.

  The carriage proceeded, rocking on imperfect springs, perpetrating a vibration within the coach that no seat cushion could mitigate. A wheel struck a hole now, jolting the queen awake. Krystyna studied her eyes. Were they blue—or were they merely reflecting the brocade?

  Krystyna became determined to shake off her despondency and break the silence, the hum-drum boredom of hooves and wheels, jouncing and jostling. “Your Majesty,” she said, “may I ask a question?”

  The queen’s back stiffened slightly as she roused herself. “Mademoiselle?”

  “I see that your eyes are almond-shaped.”

  Though Krystyna sensed a sudden tenseness in the coach, she repeated her observation. Pinch-faced Madame Heloise let out an audible gasp.

  “It was just something I noticed, Your Majesty. Do you have any Eastern blood?”

  “Mademoiselle?”

  The women on either side of her ceased their embroidery.

  “I ask because Aleksy has almond-shaped eyes much like yours, except they are dark as pitch. Of course, he’s a Tatar.”

  “Indeed. I can assure you, Mademoiselle Halicka, that I am entirely French—and Polish by marriage.”

  Krystyna knew she had overstepped her bounds but regretted it not and stepped further out onto the ice. “You were married once before, yes?”

  “Ouch!” Madame Heloise cried, having stuck herself with her embroidery needle. “Mademoiselle, you are not to interrogate Her Highness. C’est inapproprie. Shame!”

  Krystyna knew that Madame Heloise was correct in calling her forwardness a breach of decorum. Mother Abbess Teodora would no doubt be horrified. You are a reckless girl, Krystyna Halicka!

  Not so the queen, who said, “Calm yourself, Hellie, Krystyna means only to pass the time. I’m thankful for that.” Her eyes came to Krystyna’s and she started speaking fluent Polish. “Yes, child, I was married before—to a man of great wealth and position, but of little ambition. I had set out in life to achieve something, for me and for the man whom I would marry. That was an unfortunate alliance.”

  Krystyna knew that she was speaking of Jan Zamoyski, the Prince of Zamość.

  “His official title at Court was Cup-bearer, a humble title as court titles go, and also ironically fitting, for he was often in his cups.” The queen laughed, as did Krystyna, and when the other ladies kept a deadpan silence, Krystyna realized that they were unable to follow the queen’s quick tongue of her adopted country. A tête-à-tête had been the queen’s intent—but why was the queen speaking to her of such personal matters?

  “There is another irony, too,” the queen continued. “I had met Jan Sobieski before I met my first husband. He was a Jan, also. I loved the first, and yet I chose the second one. What fate, eh? Who was it that called Lady Fortuna a strumpet?”

  “The Roman goddess?” Krystyna gave out with a little laugh. “I often blame her myself, Your Majesty.”

  “Yes, she would spin her wicked wheel without regard to whom she gave —or withheld—her favors.”

  “You were too young at the time for… your current husband? Or was he not interested?”

  “No, he was interested, as you say, and so very handsome but his family was against the match. I was, like you, precocious and headstrong and yet, to my regret, my first husband, his fortune, and a good many diamonds won me over. I thought I could spur on his ambition. Alas, he could be spurred on only to his wine. To complicate matters, the two Ja
ns were friends.”

  Krystyna smiled, suppressing the urge to ask about the rumored infidelity with the second Jan, who would one day become king. That would be reckless.

  “And you, my dear,” the queen said, turning the tables, “you have had two suitors to consider, as well.”

  “Yes.” By now, Krystyna saw through to the queen’s motives in speaking to her as if they were equals. She was attempting to use her own private history to prove Fabian the better choice.

  “One noble and one—not, yes?”

  Krystyna nodded.

  “And you chose—for the moment—the Tatar. A daring choice.”

  Was this a question or an accusation? She could not be certain and did not reply.

  “The noble suitor,” the queen continued, “is he old or ugly? Is his face marred by the pox?”

  “No, Fabian is young enough and quite handsome.”

  “Does he lack ambition, my dear?”

  “I don’t think so. He is seeking a military career as an entrée into the Sejm.”

  “Ah, a politician… And the Tatar?”

  “Aleksy.”

  “Mademoiselle?”

  “Aleksy, his name is Aleksy. I sometimes call him Alek.”

  “And does Aleksy have ambition?”

  The question startled Krystyna. She had to pause and think about it. “Why, yes, I think he does.”

  “And that is?”

  “He… he wishes to be a hussar.”

  “A lancer with the wings. An ambition with danger. The glory Polish soldiers seek on the battlefield—I am familiar with it. And—what does this mean for you?”

  “The ambition is to fight for Poland—for you, Your Majesty, and for the king. Is that not enough?”

  The queen gave a half-smile. “A point—you score a point, my dear.”

  Krystyna felt hot tears suddenly spring into her eyes. Aleksy’s dream made sense to her now. Yes, he sought freedom for Poland and all of Europe, but he also sought the field of glory.

  The queen persisted. “You are likely to regret your first refusal. A girl can be too headstrong for her own good.”

  “Pardon me, Your Majesty, but it seems you regretted not being strong-willed enough to marry the love of your life at the first.” Suddenly the words were there, said and done. You are a reckless girl, Krystyna Halicka!

  Madame Heloise let out another gasp. Had she managed to pick up enough of the Polish to follow along?

  The queen turned her head to the window, and it seemed as if she were looking off into the horizon. Then, almost inaudibly, she whispered, “Another point, my dear.”

  On 24 August, after the cavalcade crossed the River Oder at Ratibor, the king and his magnate companions were being sheltered and fêted in grand Saxon style by the Obersdorf family. The bill for the non-monastic hospitality, however, was being footed by Emperor Leopold himself. As mere members of the szlachta, Roman and Marek were excluded. They had managed to secure a bottle of brandy and repaired to their own tent to lubricate their damaged pride.

  Rain was spattering onto the canvas of the lean-to attached to the tent. Inside, Ludwik lay lightly snoring on the pallet parallel to Aleksy, who lay awake, wondering about Krystyna. How close was she getting to Kraków? He knew her father had left to take up duty with General Lubomirski, but what of her mother? Had she returned to Halicz or did she remain in the city? And what of the Nardolskis? When Krystyna reappears, will they still nourish hopes of securing a union with their family? The thought brought a thrumming to his temples. And what of Fabian?

  “Aleksy?” The whisper came from Idzi, whose little pallet was placed width-wise at Aleksy’s feet.

  “Yes?”

  Idzi slithered his way up through the narrow gap between Aleksy and Ludwik so that his voice would not carry through the canvas partition. Aleksy had not heard the voices of the Halicki brothers for a good half hour and so he assumed they had gone to sleep.

  “A secret?” Aleksy asked.

  “A concern.”

  “What is it?”

  “You need to be careful.” Idzi’s’s expression was indecipherable in the dark, but his voice reflected earnestness. “Roman is nursing real hatred for you.”

  “Old news, that is.”

  “You went hunting tonight by yourself. Don’t do it again.”

  “Is that an order?” Aleksy spoke lightly. “What do you know?”

  “Only the way he looks at you. Oh, I know what the king told him—to treat you well—but it’s as if he’s planning something.”

  “You must have gypsy blood. I’ll make sure you or Ludwik are with me. But I think my supplying their metal camp plates with good game will help keep me safe.”

  “Perhaps,” Idzi said, unconvinced.

  Ludwik had come awake now and made his offering. “There’s another reason, too, that they might not try anything. That is, if they’re smart,”

  “That much is debatable,” Idzi countered.

  “What’s that?” Aleksy asked.

  “They want you at hand with your bowstave when they finally don their feathers and pick up their lances. Remember, they have yet to go up against their first enemy.”

  “As do I.”

  “True, but you are an expert archer,” Ludwik persisted. “You have that to commend you.”

  “They’ll use you,” Idzi said, “and think nothing of placing you in harm’s way.”

  “I expect as much.—Thanks, the both of you.”

  Idzi moved back to his place and within fifteen minutes his even breathing could be heard, as a delicate counterpoint to Ludwik’s snoring.

  Something in their conversation had given Aleksy pause. It would be his first battle. In his position as a retainer, he would likely have to kill a man—or be killed himself. To date, neither brother had addressed the duties of their retainers during a battle. He’d been secretly practicing with a sabre, but he had no experience with firearms. And although Szymon had provided a modicum of practice with a lance, he could not expect to be afforded the opportunity of using one at Vienna.

  But to kill a man—what would it feel like? He had longed to be a soldier, a hussar. He had thought it would happen somehow, as if God willed it. But had he really thought about hand-to-hand combat? About taking a life? He had not killed animals for sport, thinking that a wasteful business. He killed to put food on the table, his own or others’. Of course, at Vienna he would be killing for his faith, freedom, and for Poland, his adopted country. Valid reasons, he decided, although the question nagged at him: What would it be like to take a man’s life?

  Before sleep came, his thoughts swam back through these dark thoughts to days of light, the three prized occasions he had spent with Krystyna at Castle Hill.

  Twenty-six

  While Roman and Marek had not merited invitations to the Obersdorf entertainments, they and their party were included among the three thousand who accompanied the king on 25 August as he struck out for Vienna ahead of the main army. The smaller cavalcade made better time so that they arrived in Brno on 28 August and in Ober-Hollabrun on 31 August. It was there, amidst a raging and sultry storm, that a war conference was held. While Roman and Marek revealed none of what they might have heard, Piotr, who served the king and kept his ears open, had much to say on the subject when he visited Aleksy, Idzi, and Ludwik at the campsite, as he did with some regularity.

  “Did you hear?” Piotr asked as he entered the lean-to tent. “Prince Lubomirski has arrived with his forces! A good many, too.”

  Idzi and Aleksy exchanged glances. They knew that Lord Halicki had followed his old commander back into the field. Aleksy’s blood ran cold. Now that Halicki knew his daughter’s marriage had been aborted out of her love for a commoner—and a Tatar—how would he treat Aleksy?
He had heard that troubles seldom travel singly and that they come in company of threes. Not only would Lord Halicki have accompanied General Lubomirski, but Lord Nardolski, Krystyna’s would-be father-in-law would be in camp now—as would Fabian Nardolski, the jilted bridegroom. That made for three. His head spun.

  Piotr dropped down and sat cross-legged in the circle of friends and continued with his news. “Oh, and Charles, Duke of Lorraine, was full of fine compliments for our king—how he was pleased to learn the art of war under his stewardship, and the like. These two were joined by Prince Georg Waldeck, who is commanding Franconian and Bavarian forces. The king was asked to formulate the plan whereby the three armies would proceed in the twenty-five mile march to Vienna.”

  “And…” Ludwik asked, “who’s to have the baton of commander-in-chief?”

  “It certainly seems like it’s to be Sobieski,” Piotr said.

  “They say,” Ludwik said with a wink, “that had Marysieńka been allowed to remain on the march, her husband’s baton would be a foregone conclusion.”

  Piotr chuckled and continued. “At least he’s the one to lay out the plan going forward. The Saxons and part of the Austrian Imperial infantry and cavalry are to take the easiest route, along the Danube. Charles and the rest of the Imperial forces, supplemented by Waldeck with his Franconians and Bavarians, are taking the center.”

  “And us?” Aleksy pressed.

  “Ah,” Piotr said, as though he were saving the best for last, “we, my friends, are to take the right flank through the forested highlands of the Wienerwald and follow the high, long, long ridge of the Kahlenberg.”