The Boy Who Wanted Wings

by James Conroyd Martin

  “Against her wishes,” Aleksy spat. “She went so far as to dress as a camp follower to follow me. She loves me!”

  “Nonetheless,” the king said, “if she has been given to another, there is little even a king can do. You will have to make do with your second wish. Once we return to Warsaw, I will see that you train properly to become a hussar.”

  How was it that being granted such a wish could now resound with disappointment? Aleksy forged a smile.

  Idzi once again tugged on the king’s kontusz. The king bent down, listened, his eyes seeming to brighten slightly.

  “Idzi tells me,” the king said, bringing himself to full height, “that Lady Krystyna’s marriage was a marriage by proxy.” He turned to Roman. “Did your sister marry this other hussar—what’s his name?”

  “Count Fabian Nardolski, Sire.”

  “Ah, did she marry him by proxy?”

  “She did.”

  “And this soldier—Fabian—fights with us—here?”

  Roman nodded.

  “Did she marry willingly?”

  Roman seemed surprised by the question and two or three heartbeats—Aleksy’s—went by before he answered. “She did.”

  The slight delay had not been lost on the king. “Were you there, Lord Halicki, to lend credence to that fact?”

  The color left Roman’s face. “No, Sire.”

  “I see. Then, what it comes down to is this. Just days ago the girl seemed as enamored of Aleksy as he clearly is of her. I myself bore witness to that. Further, this proxy marriage has not been consummated. There may be things, after all, that a king can do in such a situation. In point of fact, I am writing to Pope Innocent himself today to let him know Vienna and Western Europe has been spared. He can only be pleased with the results of our great victory. If I ask for the annulment of this marriage by proxy, I doubt that he will refuse. It would be an easy quid pro quo, wouldn’t you say, Lord Halicki?”

  “But, Your Majesty—” Roman began and was silenced by the king’s hand as surely as if he had been clouted by his military baton.

  The king turned back to Aleksy. “How is your wound, soldier?” he asked.

  “It has been well tended, Sire.”

  “I trust that it will heal, but at least for now your days as a soldier are done. I’m sending you back to Kraków. A convoy is being organized that will carry some of the wounded, as well as some of the spoils of this victory. It will be well protected and you are to accompany it. I suspect that by the time you arrive I’ll have a message waiting for you at the castle as to the disposition of the request I make of the pope.”

  “Sire, I ask permission to accompany him,” Roman said. “Aleksy is a retainer from our estate.”

  The king turned, eyes narrowing in appraisal of Roman. “To protect him? To keep him safe, no doubt.” A certain sarcasm coated his words. “He seems quite capable, Lord Halicki. You look all of one piece. Tell me, did you sustain any wounds?”

  “No, Sire. Nothing serious.”

  “Did you kill many?”

  “Indeed, Sire. Very many.”

  “I see. You are to be commended. We could not do without your killing skills. In the coming days, we will be chasing the devil pillar to post, and I will need every man. Your request is denied.”

  “I have no retainer if he is to go.”

  “I’m not so sure you can’t do without.” The king thought and his gaze shifted down, then back to Roman. “Is Idzi here from your estate?”

  Roman’s face was screwed into that of a loser at high-stake cards. “He is, Sire.”

  “Then take Idzi. He seems the nervy sort. I’m certain his courage is big.”

  Idzi’s chest rose as he took in breath and his eyes widened.

  “Idzi, can you ride?” the king asked.

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “Ah, good! Roman will make certain you get a fine steppe pony, won’t you, Roman?”

  Roman stared at the king, then Aleksy, then Idzi. By the time his gaze went back to the king, his visage indicated defeat and he voiced agreement—and yet Aleksy sensed defiance brewing beneath the surface.

  While Idzi took his fortune with one part disappointment, one part aplomb, Roman’s face reddened with impotent rage. If he was capable of serious mischief, Aleksy was not prepared to think about it.

  His own head spun with the events of the morning, and his heart pulsed with hope.

  The next day Piotr told Aleksy that the king did, indeed, write to Pope Innocent XI requesting the annulment of the Nardolski marriage. Further, Piotr told him, with no little excitement in his voice, that the king wrote, “I came, I saw, God conquered.”

  Thirty-three

  The days went by slowly, time passing like delayed drops of water in a water clock. Krystyna spent most hours of the day in her rooms, pacing, fretting, praying. She took her meals with Lady Nardolska, comporting herself with cool politeness, nothing more. She saw no gain in revealing to the countess that she knew she had been lied to concerning Aleksy’s reported death. She would bide her time. The day would come when she would disclose that she was no longer the little fool others thought her to be.

  How long would it take for a messenger to ride the two hundred and eighty-seven miles to reach Kraków with news of the battle at Vienna? Four days? Five? The citizens of Kraków, faces grim and mouths nearly mute except for the hourly prayers the cathedral bells adjured, walked about carrying out their tasks and errands as if in a daze. Everyone in the household—Lady Nardolska and the servants—were on tenterhooks, as well, wondering when the news might come, hoping for the best, fearing the worst. Lady Nardolska’s temper with her servants ran short with regularity. She held her tongue in Krystyna’s presence, but from her rooms Krystyna often heard the countess railing at her steward, maids, and other domestic help.

  Krystyna shared the countess’ anxiety. An Ottoman victory could mean the end of a Christian Europe, the end of countless cultures, the end of Poland as she knew it. The Ottoman Sultan and his Grand Vizier, Kara Mustafa, meant to supplant Christianity with Islam, destroying cities and lives, martyring those who resist conversion. What was to become of their way of life? Her family?

  And Aleksy. Maryja, Mother of God, keep him safe.

  Then, one day, the heavy bells of the cathedral rang and rang continuously. The Market Square erupted in a frenzy of noise and activity. News had come at last!

  The queen had received word from Vienna. It took a little while for those citizens coming to the doors, windows, and balconies on Grodzka Street to discern that the great clamor was one of joy. The steward was sent out to learn the news. Upon his return, Krystyna, Lady Nardolska, and the entire staff shared in the jubilation, the countess ordering up a small barrel of fine Hungarian wine from the cellar. The Turks had summarily been defeated by King Jan Sobieski and his allied forces in just the nick of time. The enemy had been but minutes away, it seems, from breaching the walls of Vienna with their deadly mines.

  Tears in her eyes, Lady Nardolska pressed Krystyna to herself. Krystyna, her grudge notwithstanding, held her and wept, too.

  The next morning a heavy rapping came at the front entrance. Lady Nardolska nervously went to the door, shooing away the maid whose duty it was to see to callers. Krystyna moved quickly, shadowing the countess. Could it be news of her brothers or Aleksy? Or—almost in an after-thought—Fabian?

  When the countess pulled open the door, Krystyna could see a mature servant dressed in a blue uniform; embroidered on his collar was the white eagle. Krystyna’s heart raced. She recognized the livery as belonging to Wawel Castle. He had been sent on a mission from the queen. What could it portend?

  Krystyna stood behind the countess, who positioned herself in the half-opened doorway so that it left little room for another. She strained to listen to the
soft words of the messenger, thinking at one point that she heard her own name.

  The countess’ figure seemed to stiffen as she fired several questions at the messenger; none of his whispered responses yielded a satisfied word or gesture from her. As the man pivoted to descend the few portico steps, Lady Nardolska turned about and seemed almost startled to find Krystyna there. The woman’s face had gone white as porcelain.

  “What is it?” Krystyna asked, preparing for bad news.

  The countess placed one hand on her heart. “It’s the queen,” she whispered, “we’re to have an audience with her at ten tomorrow morning.”

  Krystyna could not sleep. Why were they being summoned to Wawel Castle? Were they to be informed of deaths on the battlefield? Whose? Count Nardolski’s? Fabian’s? Her own brothers’? Her father’s? Wouldn’t this be an unusual way of doing so? As for Aleksy, she knew that his death would warrant no such attention.

  A carriage arrived to collect them at half past nine in the morning.

  Neither she nor Lady Nardolska had been able to eat at the very silent and tense morning meal. The nearly sleepless night had revealed no insights as to the queen’s order.

  The drive to the castle was thankfully short.

  Madame Heloise—the queen’s Mistress of the Robes and the one woman Krystyna had hoped never to see again—was waiting for them at the drive entrance.

  “What is this about?” Lady Nardolska demanded even before the footman had the drop-down steps in readiness. She descended now, Krystyna following. “Is this about my husband or my boy? Are they injured? Are they—”

  Madame Heloise spoke with her usual curtness. “This is not about injuries or deaths, I can assure you, Lady Nardolska. As yet, no casualty list has been forwarded to the queen.”

  “Then what does it concern?”

  Madame Heloise ignored the question. “As a matter of fact, the messenger must have muddled the request.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “The queen wishes to see only the young lady.”

  “Krystyna?” Dumbstruck, Lady Nardolska looked to Krystyna, then back to Mistress Heloise, confused but choosing to play the game. “Very well, you may announce us.”

  “Alone.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The queen has asked to see Lady Krystyna alone.”

  Lady Nardolska paled considerably. A twitch below her right eye caught Krystyna’s attention. It was a tic she had noticed before.

  “Alone—why, for God’s sake?”

  Madame Heloise turned her back to give directions to the driver, instructing him to return the Lady Nardolska to her home on Grodzka Street. The footman came near to help her ascend the carriage steps.

  “No—I will wait,” she said, her demeanor stiffening.

  Madame Heloise shook her head. “Lady Krystyna is to have luncheon with the queen. It is best you return home.”

  “Luncheon?” Lady Nardolska asked in a kind of gasp.

  She was no more surprised than Krystyna, who stood as a silent witness to her mother-in-law’s befuddlement.

  The countess drew herself up in a ruffle of poorly hidden anger. “I will wait.”

  Madame Heloise shrugged. “It is not something I recommend, my lady. The streets can be rough these days with merrymakers and the like.”

  Lady Nardolska’s eyes fairly bulged. The implication was clear: she was not to be invited into the castle.

  “Good day to you, my lady.” Madame Heloise took Krystyna by the elbow, directing her toward the entrance.

  Krystyna dared not look back until they were entering the doorway. She saw then only the dark blue of her mother-in-law’s dress as she stepped up into the coach. She had no love for the humiliated countess, but somehow she felt a small measure of pity.

  At the long, carved oak dining table, Krystyna sat to the side of Queen Maria Casimire, much as she had done once before. Madame Heloise had left them alone.

  There was a sly ebullience in the glitter in queen’s eyes as she gazed at Krystyna. What is it? she wondered.

  The queen picked up her fork. “The news from Vienna has been good, as I’m certain you know, my dear. So far, at least. Let us eat now.”

  “So far?”

  “The fighting is not over.”

  “No? The city was saved; we were told it was.”

  “Indeed, it was spared. But the king is following in the wake of the Turks’ retreat. More battles are expected.”

  “Oh.” Krystyna attempted to eat. Her thoughts, however, went first to Aleksy and then to her brothers and father. “Has there been news of… my family? Madame Heloise said no casualty lists have been sent.”

  “Hellie is accurate. I’m not sure when the lists will be sent.”

  “I see.” Krystyna picked at her luncheon plate, a kind of chicken stew flavored with rosemary and a white wine.

  “It’s one of the French dishes I love. This is called Coq Au Vin. Do you not care for it?”

  Krystyna arranged her mouth into a smile. “It’s very good, Your Majesty.”

  “Ah! You’re wondering why I’ve brought you here, yes?”

  Krystyna nodded. She felt her stomach tightening.

  “Well, you see, my dear, it’s about that young man you were infatuated with a good while ago.”

  “A—Aleksy?”

  “Yes. Well, my husband, that is, the king had some news. He has sent the boy back here to Kraków.”

  Krystyna grew faint. “I—I was told he was dead—that you had a letter come saying he had died of dysentery.”

  The queen blinked in surprise. “Who told you this?”

  “Madame Heloise—no doubt at my mother’s urging.”

  The queen’s expression soured. “She’ll pay handsomely for that indiscretion. Your marriage ceremony was arranged while I was shut up in the chapel. I had no knowledge of this great lie they told you. But now, more to the point, the boy is alive, Krystyna, but he has been wounded, you see, and—”

  “Wounded?” Krystyna’s heart leaped in her chest. “How—”

  “Do not worry. He is on the mend, and like I said, on his way back here. Now I don’t think I have to ask you this, but the king says I should.”

  “What?”

  “Do you love this boy, this Aleksy?”

  “Yes, oh yes, I do. But he’s not a boy, Your Highness—” Krystyna felt the room spinning about her. And then the tears came.

  The queen reached out and placed her hand over Krystyna’s. “You’re right—war has a way of separating the wheat from the chaff.” She let out a sigh. “But you’ve been coerced into the arranged marriage. That’s the problem and not a small one, is it?”

  Krystyna’s head was down, her long braids falling forward, tears splashing onto the white silk table cloth. “No.” Her voice was little more than a breath. “Not small.”

  The queen squeezed her hand. “Look at me, child. Look at me.”

  Slowly, Krystyna lifted a tear-stained face to the queen.

  “Listen to me Krystyna. Your Aleksy has saved our son Jakub’s life. My son’s life.”

  Krystyna could only stare.

  “I can tell you that the king has some ideas about your… circumstances. Yours and Aleksy’s. He thinks he can be of help. Here, take this napkin and wipe those tears away, while I tell you how both my husband and I will see that you find happiness.”

  The queen thought it best to wait two more days before telling Krystyna of the ultimate sacrifice made by her brother Marek.

  Aleksy lay awake in the open air, staring up into the twinkling September stars, breathing, just breathing. It came to him now—not with a thunderclap but with a soft breeze—he was praying. Inexplicably, Szymon’s words were no longer p
uzzling. He understood. Each breath taken in and released there under the winking heavens was a prayer. He was at one with life, with God.

  With a great sense of wonderment, he thought how his stars had aligned to place him here. While the greater number of the wounded were being cared for in the Turkish tents at Vienna, he was one of some twenty wounded who were being taken back to Kraków, escorted by a contingent of Sobieski’s Royal Guard, soldiers that were to return to the king after the duty was carried out. Luck was with him, too, because his wound had been bandaged well enough that he was able to ride horseback rather than being transported by wagon like most of the others. In the morning, as the wagons and wounded had been assembled, the truth about the mission of the convoy came home to him. There were many more wagons than needed for a handful of wounded unable to ride. Most of the vehicles were stuffed with the magnificent Turkish tents, confiscated weapons, and trunks that one guard had confided were loaded with enough jewels and treasure to build two cities like Kraków. The significantly high numbers of the well-armed military detail corresponded to the value of the cargo. The Turks had long ago applied the epithet “Lion of Poland” to King Sobieski, Aleksy knew, so it seemed fitting that he had taken the lion’s share of treasure.

  Aleksy watched as a dark whirl of clouds scudded across the sky silhouetted against the moon. How many nights would be spent in this way? Ten? More? They were promised a town and possibly real beds for the third night, but he would not assume such a luxury as a given. A bed would make no difference. What made for his discontent was that travel was slow, painfully so. Why, his old plow horse Kastor had seemed to move faster. Oh, he knew the pace was necessary; caravans moved as slowly as sap, especially one with wagons carrying patients, as well as booty. Of his own volition, Roman had allowed him to take Miracle. With such a horse, Aleksy had thought briefly of riding alone, but doing so would put him at risk of being set upon by bands of Turks or enemy Tatars.