Aleksy looked to his own horse now and descended the hill. The steppe pony lay near death, breath coming fast and hard—and even though Aleksy was seeing men cut down this day, something stirred inside him for this poor beast who, like a thousand others, had given up its life for the machinations of men. He put the palm of his hand upon the horse’s chest, heedless that the animal might bite at him. The steppe pony attempted to lift his head at the touch, as if to look at Aleksy, but the wound was too grievous. The head fell back upon the ground and Aleksy’s hand went still as the rise and fall of the horse’s chest ceased.
Aleksy stood, divested himself of the backplate and wings, and picked up his bow. He filled his bag with arrows, then bent to collect the partial and full sheaves. He would carry them. He reclaimed his sabre, placing it in the scabbard on his sword knot, and was debating whether to remain on foot where his aim might be better than on horseback. But on foot he would be too easy a target. He had to confiscate another horse.
Though he had yet to use it, he would likely need the war hammer, he knew, and was bending to take it from its leather strap on the saddle when he heard a commotion.
A Polish soldier, dressed in elaborate cavalry gear Aleksy had not seen before and riding a huge warhorse, was descending pell-mell into the narrow field already abandoned by the living, but for Aleksy. Moments later, one of the Sipâhi flew over the crest, a war hammer in his hand, his horse galloping down in pursuit.
Aleksy determined that Fate was directing him. He withdrew an arrow, dropped the rest, removed and flung aside his helmet, and unslung his bow, but before he could set the nock of the arrow to the cord, the Turk struck the soldier’s shield with such force that he was thrown head first from his mount. The Sipâhi holstered the war hammer as his knees directed the horse to turn for another pass. In drawing his sabre to finish off the boy, the Turk gave Aleksy all the time he needed.
Aleksy loosed—once, then twice. The first shaft hit the Sipâhi’s chest at such an angle that it glanced off the metal plate.
The startled Turk looked up, his eyes finding Aleksy. But there was no time for reaction of any kind, for the second arrow flew with blistering speed, striking the man above the mail at the collarbone. The effect was nearly bloodless—but deadly. The man’s dark eyes bulged with astonishment before rolling back into his head. And then he fell from his massive horse.
Aleksy ran to the supine form of the Polish soldier and knelt. He removed the helmet, revealing a mass of wavy black hair and no wounds. He saw that he was a boy, slight and younger than himself, perhaps even fourteen. He had been dazed by the fall, but he was quickly regaining his senses. He opened his eyes with a start at the sight of Aleksy, who realized at once the boy’s fear came from his Tatar dark looks.
“I’m Polish,” Aleksy said in their common language. “See, my wings are lying just over there.” He went on to allay his fears and assure him the Sipâhi was dead.
But there was little time for introductions, for a noise drew Aleksy’s gaze to the crest of the hill. Two Sipâhi had drawn up their horses there and they were peering down.
“Were there others chasing you?” he hissed.
“Yes.” The boy started to lift his head.
“They’re watching. God’s tongue, stay quiet.”
Aleksy stood up. If the boy had thought him a Tatar, so might they. Aleksy waved his arm dismissively, as if to say, Go on your way; this deed is done. He prayed his Polish style trousers and boots were bloodied enough that they would not look closely. His very life relied now on his appearance.
The boy started to stir and Aleksy quickly put a boot on his shoulder, as if he were a hunter taking credit for his kill. “Don’t move,” he ordered through clenched teeth, “or we’ll both be dead.”
One soldier was saying something to the other.
“Ölmüş?” the one shouted.
Aleksy hesitated.
“Ölmüş?” the other demanded, louder. He drew himself up in his saddle as if preparing to descend the hill.
“It means ‘dead’,” the boy-soldier whispered.
“Ölmüş!” Aleksy cried, pantomimg a slash across the throat and waving them on. Through clenched teeth he whispered, “Go! Damn you, go!”
They seemed convinced and were about to leave when one of them looked behind them. Aleksy could hear and feel the hooves of a good many horses approaching.
In but the blink of an eye the two men vanished.
Assuming the arriving force were Christian allies, Aleksy bent to help the boy get to his feet.
In moments a Polish force of five was flying down the hill toward them. Suddenly fear shot through Aleksy. They, too, would assume he was Turkish or one of the Grand Vizier’s Tatars.
The boy stepped in front of him just as the rotmistrzr—a company commander and almost certainly noble—jumped down from his mount, hellfire in his brown eyes, sabre in hand.
The boy held up his hand to protect Aleksy. “Polski,” he said simply. “He came to my aid.”
The commander’s intense face slowly softened and then he finally nodded.
Relieved, Aleksy nodded in return, guessing the commander was the boy’s father. He retrieved his helmet now, making sure the sprig of hay was still secured in the pocket used for plumes. He wanted no one else thinking him the enemy—except the enemy. He went then to pick up his bow and the sheaves of arrows.
The boy was atop his horse by now, as was the commander, who pointed to the dead man’s stallion and said, “Take the bastard’s animal!”
Aleksy nodded.
“Thank you, Tatar!” The boy called as he rode off, flanked by his posse of five.
After retrieving and strapping on the wings, Aleksy went to take hold of the warhorse, thinking that the commander must be the boy’s father.
He could waste no time. He had to search out Roman, as was his duty. It wasn’t till he threw his leg over the dead man’s horse that the pain reminded him of his wound. “Chrystus Jezus,” he whispered. The movement had deepened the slice in his thigh and it was bleeding, badly. He went to rifle through the enemy’s saddle bag for bandaging. He gasped at the sudden realization that he recognized the saddlebag. He was sitting upon Marek’s horse Miracle. It was not the first time he deemed the horse aptly named.
Marek rode with him. He was convinced of it.
Enraged with hatred and anger, Roman spurred his horse from one combat to another. He left no Turkish challenger alive. He was angry about his brother’s death, angry he had so badly mishandled his lance in his first exchange that it broke into three pieces, and he was angry about Aleksy. How he wished he would just die—that some Turk would skewer him like a goat steak. Better him than Marek. As a retainer, Aleksy was to keep him in sight, but Roman shrank at the thought. He hoped never to cross paths with the Tatar again. He cursed the day his father returned from the Wild Fields with him.
He drew in breath and stiffened in his saddle, readying the sabre in his right hand, directing the horse with his knees. Better to deal with this dark devil in front of me, he thought, as he ran his double-edged blade through the side of a Sipâhi who was getting the best of a mounted Saxon cavalryman. He moved on, allowing the Saxon to finish him off. “Bastards!” he screamed, charging toward another Sipâhi, slashing the throat of a Janissary infantryman as he rode before quickly dispatching the horseman. His targets had taken him toward the Danube and parallel to the Kahlenberg ridge, and in so doing he realized that he had passed from the bulk of the Polish forces into the midst of a good many Imperial and Saxon troops. They parted for him, nodding their respect for the Polish uniform and especially, he guessed, for the wings he wore. He had the impression he increased the intensity of the action around him and he reveled in it. As for the Turks, just one in five dared to view his winged figure as a target while the others kept their dist
ance. Roman saw to it that those who took their chances with him came to regret it in short order.
Roman had effectively disappeared into the swarm of warriors. Aleksy thought little of the leg wound he had bound, the noble’s son he had saved, or even the whereabouts of Roman, for the chaos that was war roared on. He sat upon Miracle, holding to his bow, his fingers—despite the calluses—raw and red with blood from the quantity of shafts and their goose feathers flying through them. He kept his distance where he could so as to have the stillness of the horse for his aim. Few Janissaries wore helmets or mail coats so that he could work more efficiently than he had imagined. These were not animals quick to sense danger and run. These were soldiers pledged to stay for the duration, pledged to embrace death if such was their fate.
Three mounted Sipâhi spied him now. One turned on him with his recurve bow. Szymon’s comment that recurve bows had the advantage of speed over longbows rang in his ears. Aleksy drew an arrow from his case, nocked it, and loosed. No time to aim, only time to think it to its destination—as he had learned to do.
The arrow flew to its target. Before the Turk could release his arrow, the steel point of Aleksy’s shaft slammed into the man’s turbaned forehead. The red stain on the white turban was scarcely more than a little circle about the embedded shaft when the man dropped to the ground, his eyes wide as an owl’s.
The other two had not taken notice of their fallen compatriot. Their horses were climbing the incline toward him, the Turks cursing Aleksy in their language. Aleksy had another arrow nocked in time and he sent it into the closest man’s cursing throat, knocking him backwards so that he tumbled from his mount. There was no time to nock another arrow, for the third man was but yards away. In one movement, he placed the bow upon his back and drew his sabre. Holding little hope the horse would take direction, he pulled on the reins and—blessedly—the horse reared. The movement startled the Turk’s horse, which thundered by, out of striking distance. The Sipâhi directed his stallion to pivot and without delay came after Aleksy again, sabre raised. Aleksy maneuvered his horse, turning its head and neck away from the downward strike of the deadly curved blade meant to take down the animal and thus unseat its rider. He had learned that move.
Aleksy tugged again. The horse reared and as it came down, twisting in a semi-circle, Aleksy drove his sabre into the unprotected chest of the Turk.
There was no time for self-congratulation, he realized, when he looked down to see the bandage undone and his thigh wound once again awash in blood. He felt himself growing weak, dizzy.
Thirty-two
The Kraków night air was cool, and Krystyna stood hugging her elbows at the open window of her sitting room in the Nardolski town house. The city below was quiet, eerily so. Talk all day along Grodzka Street had been of the effort to halt the Turks and save Vienna. Folks said the enemy had been engaged. But how could they know? Krystyna wondered, fending off tears. Vienna was so very far away. Had the queen been informed by special messenger?
The heavy bells of Wawel Cathedral tolled now, their deep sonorous sounds rolling like cannon booms through Market Square and out into the spider web of Kraków streets. Krystyna placed her hands on the windowsill which vibrated slightly with the report of the bells. The tolling came as a jolting, and perhaps unnecessary, reminder for the citizens to pray for Christendom’s victory. No one was likely to forget, for it came hourly. Krystyna wondered if it would continue through the night.
The bells of the Wawel Cathedral reminded Krystyna of St. Laurence Day, just one month earlier, the day she processed down the main aisle wearing the harvest crown that she presented to the King of the Commonwealth. The day she was to have wed Aleksy in the cathedral’s rectory. Too late, Idzi had told her of the contents of Aleksy’s note, the note that had fallen—by way of Roman—into her father’s hands.
Aleksy.
Was it possible that he was dead? Was it? Had he sickened in those days after he left Kraków? She could not accept his death as fact. She would not. It didn’t feel right. In her heart he lived.
And yet, in that moment, at the castle, she had accepted it. She had allowed herself to be fitted into the Nardolski clan with little more effort than it took for the queen’s ladies to fit her into a wedding dress. And so now she was Countess Krystyna Nardolska.
She shivered, thinking of the man she had married by proxy. Fabian Nardolski… what was his fate? What if he is wounded in battle? What if… what if he dies? It could happen. It could very well happen. What then? She would still be married to the Nardolski clan. The guilt set in at once. She didn’t wish Fabian dead. She wished Aleksy alive.
Her next thought served only to enlarge the guilt many times over. What if Aleksy were to return and not Fabian? What if it were in her power—by wishing or praying—to make the decision?
She became dizzy at the thought. It was an evil thought and she attempted to stamp it out as if it were a small fire that might grow into a great conflagration, one that would sear her soul.
Krystyna turned back to face her little sitting room, lighted by wall sconces, and the attached bedchamber, still dark. She doubted that she would sleep. Her body told her of its hunger, had been telling her. She had begged off going down to supper, complaining of a stomach ailment. She supposed that her mother would bring a plate up to her room, but for once she proved not so predictable. She was most likely in her room taking pains to pack for her trip home to Halicz, leaving her unhappy daughter to fend for herself in the Nardolski household.
Krystyna decided to go down to the kitchen herself in order to find something in the cupboard that would hold her over until morning. She did much the same thing at the convent school, stealing down to the cold room to appropriate something sweet. That seemed a lifetime ago.
She was halfway down the front stairway when she realized she should have taken the servants’ stairwell so as to avoid running into Lady Nardolska. Nonetheless she stealthily pushed on.
She came to the bottom and moved toward the kitchen, but as she did so, she heard whispered voices coming from the dining hall. She sidled along the wall until she stood very still near the open double doors. The voices belonged to her mother and Lady Nardolska.
“You’re welcome to stay, Zenobia,” Lady Nardolska was saying.
“No, what with my husband and the boys at war, there are things to be managed at the estate.” Her mother paused. “Besides, the marriage is a fait accompli. What is there for me to do here?”
“But your daughter Krystyna… I’m concerned how well she will adjust. She refused to come down to supper. And I’ve heard her crying in her room.”
“Her fate is sealed. She knows that, so there won’t be any trouble. She will adjust. I’ll talk to her tomorrow morning before I leave.”
Krystyna’s heart seemed to catch between beats. Her fate was sealed, indeed.
“But that boy that ruined—”
“The Tatar?” her mother asked. “He ruined the planned wedding for certain, but Krystyna is still a maiden.”
“But she seems to still care for him.”
“Not to worry, Irena. Krystyna will get over him.”
Krystyna thought how wrong her mother was, how distant mother and daughter had become.
“But if he should—”
“Survive and come back?” her mother interjected. “Not likely. If news of the marriage isn’t enough, Roman will dissuade him from any kind of intermeddling in quick order. That is, if the little upstart Mongol hasn’t been eliminated by his own kind.”
Krystyna flattened her back against the wall, heart thumping in her chest. Sweet Jezus! They had lied to her about Aleksy’s dying. The two of them had schemed together in order to get her to agree to the marriage by proxy. She had been duped—and by her own mother. There was a rushing, pounding sensation at her ears. She felt as if her life were in freefa
ll. As if she were plummeting to earth and no one was there to aid her. Nothing to break her fall.
She was certain she was about to pass out when one thought superseded all others.
Aleksy was alive. Alive!
It was a sweet, sweet thought. Bitterness followed, for the incontrovertible truth was that they were set on different paths. If he survived the war, they could never marry. They might never see one another again.
But this, just knowing he was alive, even if he were on the other side of the earth, this was enough for her to go on, for her heart to go on. Aleksy was her heart.
Krystyna drew in breath and returned to the stairway, the thought of food far from her mind.
Aleksy awoke slowly. For the moment he had forgotten where he was, forgotten the danger, the killing, the slaughter.
He lay on a strangely soft and luxurious pallet. A lamp burned close by. He was in a tent, he came to realize, one like he had never seen. Two men his size could stand atop one another in the center and not touch the roof. The walls of the tent were not a mere coarse canvas, as he had been accustomed to, or even the fine weave of Turkish canvas employed on the exterior of the enemy tents. These walls glittered with rich materials of purple and crimson, its Islamic arabesques sewn with thread of gold.
Am I a captive? Dog’s blood! The question hit him like a war hammer.
He was alone. His attempt to rise from the pallet was foiled by the pain in his thigh. He lay back, recalling the wound and how the bandaging had fallen apart while he was atop his horse. He was losing blood, so much blood. He could remember a profound weakness, then slipping from his mount into what seemed a vortex of animals, men, sabres, gunfire, cries of war and of pain—and finally the muffled thud of what could only have been his body striking hard earth. Then—nothing.
The Boy Who Wanted Wings Page 31