The Boy Who Wanted Wings

by James Conroyd Martin

  He had had two days to rest before the caravan set out from Vienna. He spent the time recuperating in the Turkish tent where Idzi and Piotr had placed him and was thus saved from having to deal with Roman. Idzi managed to slip away from Roman just before the King’s Army was to set out after the fleeing Turks. “Stay clear of him,” Idzi had warned, “he’s mad as I’ve ever seen him, Alek. They say anger’s like an old snake skin that needs to be shed. Well, that fits him just fine.”

  Aleksy laughed. “I should be warning you. You’re the one who has been given the unhappy post of playing his aide. So, it’s Roman the snake—?”

  Idzi didn’t laugh. “He’s a deadly one, Alek, and as long as the king has set you on the path to Kraków and Krystyna, he’ll not shed that skin. It’ll grow tighter and tighter. Don’t think lending you Miracle is a good deed. He just wants Miracle home safe in the stable at Poplar House. You’ve got to watch yourself.”

  “I have some fancy protection.” Aleksy took up a dagger that lay on his pallet. “Yesterday Prince Jakub gave this to me.” He removed the dagger from the exquisite gold sheath and placed the hilt in Idzi’s small hand.

  “Good God,” Idzi cried, his voice sliding up an octave. “Are these stones real?”

  “You’ve seen the loot around here, Idzi. Do you think Kara Mustafa would prize fake rubies? Go ahead look at them closely—six on either side.”

  Idzi turned the dagger over. “This is protecting you in style.” Sighing, he picked up the previous thread of thought. “Roman and I are going after the Turks and you are going to Kraków, so there’s distance between you two now, but that won’t always be the case. And snakes have friends, Alek.” He handed the dagger back to Aleksy.

  “Your point is taken.” Aleksy replaced the dagger in its sheath and laid it on his pallet. “Now, let me tell you what else the king has done.”

  Idzi looked up, his high forehead furrowing. “What?”

  “He’s giving me land in the Kobryn Province. That’s where he settled a number of loyal Tatars on Crown estates a few years ago.”

  Idzi’s mouth fell open. “You’re to be a land owner? My god! Is this true?”

  “It is. A modest estate. Fifty acres or so.”

  “Then… then you’re to be a lord!”

  Aleksy laughed and shrugged. “He said I must have something to offer the daughter of Count Halicki.”

  “Do you think that will smooth things over?”

  “With Roman—never! But I’m hopeful it will with the count and countess. A king’s wishes are hard to ignore. And, after all, Lord Halicki’s family was not always of the szlachta. At some point, someone raised them up.”

  “Where is Kobryn?”

  “I’m told it’s some two hundred sixty-five miles due north of Halicz.”

  “Not so close to the in-laws, then? Lucky man!”

  “Or to Roman.”

  Idzi rubbed at his square, stubbled chin. “You would be closer to Warsaw, I’m guessing?”

  “Maybe a hundred fifty miles east of it.”

  “Valuable land, Alek, unless it’s a mountain,” he said with a laugh. “The king must set great store by his son Jakub’s life—to be so generous with you.”

  “Prince Jakub could be king one day. Listen, Idzi, I’ll want you to come live there, too. You must.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “What do you mean? You’re not bound to my parents.”

  “Oh, your mother won’t miss me a bit, but your father might. And he’s the one who offered me a home.”

  The night darkened now as clouds—black as tar—eclipsed the moon. Aleksy lay in the chilled quiet, thinking back on that comment of Idzi’s. He had always hoped that his mother’s dislike for the dwarf had not been as evident to his friend as it was to him. He had regularly tried to shield him from her comments and sour face by making excuses for her unfriendliness. But something in Idzi’s voice told him that her condescending attitude and efforts to disinclude him had not gone unnoticed. His mother’s dislike had seared its way into his tender heart like a poker freshly reddened in the fire at her kitchen grate.

  Guilt added to the dead-of-night, for he knew that it was as his surrogate that Idzi had been asked—in effect, ordered—by the king to accompany Roman on a most dangerous mission. King’s request or no, he himself should not have allowed his friend to be his surrogate. He should have gone instead.

  But in the briefest of moments he had made the most momentous of decisions. He had turned away from the opportunity of becoming a hussar. Was that not his dream? Had it not been his obsession for years? And then, when the moment miraculously arrived, in the person of the King of Poland no less, he allowed the occasion to pass.

  Only now did he try to sort through his reasons for doing so. There was Krystyna, of course. Not long after meeting her, he came to value her as much as his dream of becoming a winged warrior. And then—suddenly, incredibly, the king presented him with his choice of futures. Life as a hussar—or life with Krystyna. His answer came in a heartbeat. He chose Krystyna. He did so even though he doubted whether the king could work his magic with Pope Innocent and have her proxy marriage annulled. It was a roll of the dice.

  And he had been a hussar—unofficially—for one day and on the occasion of the battle of the century. He would always have that. And, in some ways it had lived up to expectations. The thrill of being part of the force of the winged hussars descending like birds from a vengeful heaven—even in his initial role as retainer—would stay with him the length of his life. Then, wearing Marek’s hussar wings as he engaged the enemy brought his dream to life in the most spectacular fashion.

  And in some ways the fields fronting the walls of Vienna, bloody as they were, were fields of glory, indeed. The Christian forces—pieced and hammered together by King Jan Sobieski—won the day. However, amidst the triumph, Aleksy witnessed such death and butchering of animals and men, friend and foe, as to defy imagination or description. His dream of becoming a hussar had not allowed for the sight of miles of torn flesh, a darkening lake of blood seeping into the ground, the piling of bodies to be burnt like so much rubbish.

  It was not fear that made him decline the king’s offer. Once he was in motion—moving into the thick of the fight—his fear dissipated like a mist at noon. He took to battle as if he were taking part in a village marksmanship contest, but instead of striking the archery butt, he was killing, killing, killing. It was the feeling of elation that ran through his veins like quicksilver that frightened him—not then, but in the aftermath. It was, he knew now, bloodlust, and it was not something of which he could be proud. He had been overcome with the appetite for violence. Is this the way of most soldiers, he wondered. He hated himself for it.

  And so, the choice the king presented was not a difficult one. It came with some ease.

  Krystyna.

  Thirty-four

  6 October

  Párkány, Hungary

  “Dog’s blood!” Roman cursed. They had camped the night on the outskirts of Párkány, and he rose now before dawn. He had done nothing but curse, it seemed, since leaving Vienna—at last—on 17 September, the Poles under King Sobieski leading and followed by the Imperial forces led by Charles of Lorraine. A full five days had elapsed since the rout at Vienna, allowing the Ottomans too much time to escape and recoup. The delay allowed for a litany of things with which he took issue. Squabbling went on among the victors regarding credit for the victory and shares in the spoils. Arguments, as well as lethal illnesses Hungary was known to host in the fall season, caused the Saxons and others to return home rather than pursue the enemy. The number of Polish and Austrian forces to make the pursuit was placed at thirty-five thousand, a number that Roman feared could prove insubstantial. Further complicating the chase, a circuitous route was decided upon to avoid land that had b
een laid bare by previous foraging of friend and enemy forces, a route that also necessitated lag time because of waiting for boats at river crossings. All of this was enough to put Roman on edge, but there was more: beneath his frustration boiled his hatred for Aleksy and repulsion at the special treatment shown to him by the king. Kicking at the gravel, he growled out another curse: “God’s arse! May the Tatar die before reaching Kraków—and my sister!”

  Roman pulled from the campfire a small pot and poured into a metal cup Idzi’s chicory concoction, wondering the while where the dwarf had run off to.

  Idzi. Another bone of contention. Some hussars still had their three retainers to aid them, tending to their weapons and seeing their betters properly armed on battle days. He had but half of a retainer and one not to be trusted.

  A red dawn was breaking. He stood now and took up his telescope. An Ottoman camp, its numbers unimpressive, was situated below guarding the pontoon bridge that spanned the River Danube, the sole access to the town of Párkány. The glass swept the panorama. To the right and to the left of the camp, the land lay flat as a board and empty.

  He pivoted now, directing his telescope beyond the encampment of Sobieski’s vanguard and toward the way they had come, surveying some five thousand Polish hussars and cavalry. As of the day before, the king said they were to rest and wait for the remainder of the Polish and Austrian forces to catch up. He raised his telescope. The horizon was empty. Roman turned and spat. “Only God knows when they will arrive,” he mumbled. More lost time.

  Idzi appeared. “You’d best get into your gear now,” the dwarf said.

  “Why? Are the others close? Has he had word?”

  Idzi shrugged. He was already laying out Roman’s armor. “We’re making a move today.”

  “Who says so?”

  “The king.”

  How was it that this little man always caught wind of events before others? “What do you do, sit under the king’s table?”

  No response.

  “It’s that Piotr that supplies you with information, isn’t it? I thought we were to wait for the Austrians and the rest of our men.”

  Idzi was running a sharpening stone up and down the edge of Roman’s sabre. “The king’s spy said there’s but a small number here at Párkány. He’s not one to wait.”

  “Really? Not one to wait? You could have fooled me.” Roman began the laborious process of donning his war-gear.

  Holy Mass had been abbreviated. Roman declined Communion, as well as Confession offered by a chaplain. He was saddled upon Flash, anxiously waiting, his armor in place, the twin arcs of eagle feathers attached to his back. His sabre hung on his sword knot, his two pistols and war hammer were holstered. He wordlessly took hold of a new lance Idzi handed up. The night before, Roman had cut Marek’s name into the wood.

  The captain of his company of one hundred fifty hussars had announced that they were to be among seven companies of cavalry in the advance formation, with the king and the remainder of the five thousand following in support. Roman’s company was to ride in the lead position of the right wing. Some soldiers whispered concerns as to why the king was not waiting for the arrival of the rest of the Polish and Imperial forces—cavalry, infantry, and artillery. Others wondered aloud. Company captains assured their men that word had come back to the king that the Ottoman force situated before Párkány was small and easily assailable—no more than one thousand. The Grand Vizier, Kara Mustafa, was thought to be at Buda attempting to reorganize the bulk of his disjointed—and some said insurgent—army. Intelligence had it that the meager Turkish forces present for the purpose of defending Párkány were under the command of a young pasha, Kara Mehmed. They were thought to be very vulnerable.

  Young did not necessarily mean incompetent, Roman thought. And yet, he gave the king the benefit of the doubt: he found himself in agreement—that it was better to strike at once—before Ottoman reinforcements arrive.

  He prepared himself for the killing that was to come, clearing his mind to the best of his ability. It had been difficult to do at Vienna because his brother had just given up his life in the initial contact with the enemy. It was difficult to do this day, too, for the fire of hate he had for Aleksy burned at high heat. He could not forgive the king for his meddling. Still, he made the attempt to find focus. The enemy lay ahead.

  Idzi stood nearby, looking up. “Go with God,” the dwarf said, nodding, as if in encouragement, but the valediction and gesture went unanswered and Idzi had to step lively to avoid Flash’s flank when the horse pivoted and moved away. With the pressure of his knee, Roman directed Flash to his place in the advance party. It was to be a mere skirmish today, they were assured, easily fought, easily won. He assumed that was the reason why the Polish hymn “Bogurodzica” was not sung. Neither were there many more than a few sentences pronounced by the king, words that called for a swift victory over the heathen forces protecting Párkány. Confidence reigned.

  Then came the usual orders.

  “Secure your hats!”

  “Draw together knee to knee!”

  “Sabres on sword knots!”

  And for those cavalry without lances: “Draw sabres!”

  And finally, “Dalej!” March on!

  The advance cavalry—more than one thousand—lances pointed upward with black and gold pennants flying—eagle feathers fluttering on the backs of the hussars—moved out and onto the way to Párkány. The advance to combat began.

  The thousand moved at a gentle trot. In the lead company, Roman kept his eyes on the flat terrain, scanning ahead for the enemy. In no time, he could see that the Turks were mounted and ready. The pasha might be young but he was going to make his stand. Their numbers were not intimidating, and yet Roman could remember his father’s many warnings about becoming too complacent, too confident of victory.

  He recalled that during a fencing match with his brother at the Officer’s Training School he had become quite full of himself, so certain was he that he would score the necessary hits. After all, Marek could not match his speed nor skill. What it was that took his attention, his focus, he could not recall. Someone’s face in the audience? A loutish catcall from the side? Whatever it was, it allowed Marek to press forward with the winning hit. It was a lesson well learned.

  Afterward, he had to go to some length to convince his brother that he had not thrown the match. Marek, sweet Marek! Come be with me this day, Lord Brother Mareczek. He would stay on guard.

  Suddenly, Roman noticed to the right of the enemy and at a surprisingly close distance there was a multitude of colored splotches upon the field that up to that point had been only brown with a bit of green woven in. The hussars’ trot seemed to slow as everyone became aware of what lay ahead to the right. At once, the riotous display of color seemed to exhibit movement. And then it came home to Roman, as it must have to everyone. This was not a field of flowers blowing and undulating in the wind. What they were seeing were waves of multi-colored turbans and other Eastern headgear of the Ottomans.

  Roman’s eyes grew wide even as his stomach muscles contracted. Frantic curses went up all around him as the right wing prepared for a deadly engagement.

  Their dark faces were coming into view. Their force—and it was a massive one—had been positioned below, completely hidden in a basin curtained by reeds. The fine horses—Arabians with a concave profile, arched neck and high tail carriage—were climbing the incline now and in no time the Sipâhis were placed level on the field with the Poles, falling into line with the pasha’s thousand. The Poles were outnumbered, badly so. The Ottomans immediately gave spur and advanced, quickly moving into a full gallop, like a band of vampires loosed from hell. “Allah! Allah! Allah!” came the high-pitched, deafening and demonic cries. Their numbers were many more times than intelligence had figured.

  “Złożcie kopie!” Roman’
s captain called out, but his call to lower the lances and the orders of the other captains were largely lost amidst the pandemonium of the panicking Poles.

  Heart thumping, Roman lowered his lance, and along with a number of his company, moved forward in an uneven line, for there had been no time to form the true and tight battle formation of Sobieski’s signature square. The surprise had been too great, the reaction too disorderly. Those who had fought at Vienna and lived to tell of it gathered their wits and brawn and made ready for the onslaught, and yet there were lancers who were not quick enough to lower their lances with the confidence and skill required and other soldiers who had no time to light the match-cords of their muskets.

  Roman had the base of his lance secure in its tok, its length leveled horizontally, poised for his first kill. He spurred his horse into a gallop even as he watched the looming faces coming forward at twice the speed. Well aware that his lance could break upon impact with an enemy in breastplate, his focus settled on a Sipâhi swathed in orange and white. Some Poles were likely to thrust their spears into the enemies’ horses so that the allied cavalry coming behind could cut down the fallen riders. Maiming and killing the warhorses caused great chaos and could work to the aggressors’ advantage, but something in Roman revolted at slaying the animal. He felt that skewering a man on a lance was more effective in engendering fear and destroying morale. But he knew that whether the Turk or the horse was the target, large numbers on both sides would not be killed in the initial contact. The battle would turn on the hand-to-hand combat that followed.

  “Allah! Allah! Allah!” the Turks shrieked and fell upon the stunned Poles.

  “For Chrystus!” “For Maryja!” the Poles responded. “Strike hard!”

  The Turk in orange and white was well fed and proved an easy target for the seventeen-foot lance. “For Marek!” Roman screamed. The enemy was fully impaled before he could wield his curved sabre. Roman allowed the lance to fall to the ground with the body. The weight of the enemy precluded a second skewering.