The Boy Who Wanted Wings

by James Conroyd Martin

  Roman would not trust muskets. He had always thought them a dicey weapon in the heat of battle. He quickly removed his sabre from the sword-knot on his left wrist, an action done none too soon, for he was suddenly in a swarm of enemy. It was obvious to him that the Polish advance had failed badly; they had been surprised and had no time to properly assemble. Orders came in a haphazard fashion and reaped little response. He fought now, calling on the spirit of his brother, doing more fending off than killing, even while he witnessed Poles being toppled from their mounts—some headless—in growing numbers.

  The Ottomans were upon them like a frenzy of flies. Even while slicing and jabbing as he held off blow after blow, directing Flash to pivot and pivot again, Roman was preparing to die. There would be no way out of this. Just one second’s inattention to the swirling maelstrom about him would bring his end. He should have made his confession in the morning. He prayed for his parents, for Marek’s soul, and for Krystyna. Ah, Krystyna, he had not always treated her well. He regretted that. God forgive me.

  Suddenly, he became aware of a surge of more Polish uniforms about him, providing him with the briefest of respites. He realized that King Jan Sobieski had come to the front with the rest of his forces behind him, some four thousand. The king himself was not far off, a forbidding figure atop Palasz, his powerful bay stallion, hacking and thrusting while calling out encouragement to his men and oaths against the heathens.

  The king attempted to call for battle formation, but despite the influx of all available support, the chaos and panic did not abate. The order went unheeded, for they were but a hundred paces from the thickest contingent of the enemy, whose numbers had suddenly swelled to double that of the Polish. Instead of generating fear and panic in the enemy as hussars were wont to do, they themselves were infused with dread and despair. Roman had unleashed scathing criticism of the king throughout the trek from Kraków, and he thought even now as he fought for his life how the king had woefully mishandled today’s maneuver.

  The king had violated one of the most basic rules of military tactics, one that had been drummed into every cadet’s head in basic officer training. He had forged ahead on emotions and hubris—without having any forces in reserve—not cavalry, not infantry, not artillery.

  Good Poles were being cut down in front of Roman now—like so many stalks of wheat—by an enemy who exulted in the forward flush of victory. To them, the day was theirs. “Allah! Allah! Allah!” they shrilled with chilling glee. Nonetheless, those who were managing to fight off the Turks were called now by the king to penetrate the enemy line. “Forward!” Sobieski bellowed. “For the Chrystus!” Finding his options limited, Roman obeyed. A small force followed suit. He doubted he would survive the foolhardy gambit.

  The charge succeeded for the moment, but it soon became clear that the sheer number of the Turks was causing the better parts of the Polish center and left wing—those who had not as yet met the enemy—to break off and retreat.

  Roman found himself close to the nine who guarded the king. Little by little they were becoming enclosed on all sides by the enemy. One of the company commanders rode forward and beseeched the king to forsake the cause and flee. The king refused, instead ordering the commander to rescue the prince from the melee. While trying to convince Jakub to obey his father’s request, the officer was fatally shot in the neck. Sidling his horse in toward the blood-spattered boy, one of the King’s Guards managed to marshal a more compliant prince to an opening in the fray that might lead to safety. In no time they opened up to a gallop.

  Meanwhile, Roman fell in with the King’s Guard. He thought he heard Sobieski cry, “Welcome, Hussar!”

  The king called afresh for a charge and galloped into a fairly wide opening, one which led deeper into the enemy. In but minutes they were forced to slow to a trot by a tightening line of Sipâhi horsemen. Roman thought Sobieski had become unhinged by his arrogance and questioned his own good sense for joining his guard because a quick survey of the masses in front of them indicated that to persevere meant an ignominious death.

  He realized a full retreat was necessary to keep the king from being killed or taken prisoner. The monarch and his guard seemed to come to the same conclusion, for they veered right—nearly stirrup-to-stirrup now—and urged their Polish-Arabians into a canter. Escape would be no easy task, for the Turks pressed in around them, their dark faces as fierce as their cries, their horses hemming in the King’s Guard, slowing them to a near standstill. Instinctively, Roman moved his sabre to his left hand and had only just grasped his war hammer in his right when a Sipâhi, hell-bent on taking the king, propelled his warhorse into their midst. One of the guards engaged him in swordplay, but was not nearly quick enough and suffered a grievous wound to his torso. The Turk withdrew his spattered sabre from his victim, and Roman saw his focus go to the king, but before he could sidle up to the king, who was already engaged with a brute of a Sipâhi, Roman’s war hammer slammed into his steel helmet, splitting his skull and knocking him from his horse.

  The king managed to dispatch his assailant, but two more of the King’s Guards were lost before the group could extricate themselves. So it was that Roman was one of just six who, along with the king, now found an opening and forged a mad gallop.

  The chase went on for nearly eight miles over rough and furrowed ground, the six and the King of Poland himself racing for their lives. As their own battered and recouping forces came into view, so too did the standards and pennants of the long-awaited Imperial and Polish Armies, which had only just arrived. Roman turned in his saddle to witness the pursuing Ottoman warriors—more than a hundred, he guessed—halt and take stock of the allies’ freshly-arrived forces spanning a rolling hillside. They turned back. Roman would learn that more than a thousand brave Poles died. But the prize of taking the King, the Lion of Poland, had proven elusive.

  He sighed aloud.

  It would be some time later that he learned the fate of Kara Mustafa. For his failure at Vienna, the Grand Vizier’s execution was ordered by Sultan Mehmed IV. He was strangled by a silk cord, the manner in which high-ranking persons in the Ottoman Empire were put to death.

  Thirty-five

  Kraków

  The long and grueling journey from Vienna was coming to an end. The caravan of soldiers and heavily-laden wagons had never moved as slowly as it was doing now, snaking its way up the incline of the limestone bluff known as Wawel Hill and passing through the gated archway that led into the courtyard of Wawel Royal Castle. Aleksy had been ordered to ride at the tail’s end, so he would be the last to witness the triumphant arrival of the spoils of war, as well as the welcome to a few victims of the combat that made victory possible. The sight of Kraków, belted by the River Vistula shimmering pink at dusk, quickened the pace of his heart. The debilitating fatigue of the interminable journey just completed fell away as he watched the great red walls of the fortress move closer, and every muscle, sinew, and vein in his body were alerted to the moment. He had every reason to believe he was about to see Krystyna.

  The wagons were being systematically assembled in the large, irregularly shaped courtyard by the time Aleksy directed Miracle through the entry arch.

  He remained mounted, surveying the commotion. While the wounded were being helped to what seemed to be several offices in the arcaded ground level, dozens upon dozens of men in royal livery were attending to the wagons containing the valuables. No time was being lost in cataloging and conveying the Turkish treasure to another ground level room that Aleksy guessed was the Crown Treasury. Swifter than thought, his hand moved to the sheath at his waist that housed the ruby-encrusted dagger. He took care to make certain that it was concealed by his żupan. What if one of the officials were to question him about it? He had nothing from the king to prove it had been a gift. And other than the bejeweled dagger and the monarch’s unwritten promise of a small estate, he arrived in Kraków destitute.


  His eyes moved upward now to the beautiful arcaded galleries of the second and third levels. It was this third level, this uppermost floor, with its soaring height under a steep, hipped roof that drew his attention now, not for its architecture, but for the activity there. Women, in a colorful profusion of finery, like tropical birds vibrant even at twilight, were filing out of the private royal rooms there, coming at once to the arcade railing, their faces alight with curiosity. Aleksy looked from face to face, searching.

  And then he spied her. She was dressed in cornflower blue, her beautifully plaited hair piled high and decorated with a matching ribbon of the same hue. Almost simultaneously, Krystyna saw him and her hand gave a little wave, then it went to her cheek as if in disbelief. She immediately pivoted and made for the stairwell. A middle-aged woman dressed in brown silk—certainly not the queen Aleksy had seen on the road to Vienna—turned toward the retreating figure and called out something, her face grim in the gloaming. Clearly she meant to stop Krystyna—to no avail.

  Aleksy dismounted and had only time to secure Miracle to a ring on an arcade column before she stood before him, a vivid blue figure perfectly framed by the arch. “Alek,” she said, her voice nearly lost amidst the tumult in the courtyard. The moment lengthened as he stared, stricken silent. She was in his arms then. He would not recall later which of them had bridged the few paces between them, but he would remember how her body trembled next to his, her heart beating fast, her breath at his neck—and how time was held suspended. There was no kiss; the embrace was all.

  Finally, gently, he took her upper arms and held her at arms’ length. Tears were brimming hot in his eyes, but words were scarce. “Krysia,” he said. He had imagined this moment every night of the trek back from Vienna.

  “You’re here—but you were wounded.”

  “I’m in one piece,” he said, pulling a smile and wiping at the tail of his right eye. “It was a little cut to my thigh. It’s healing nicely now.”

  “Thank God!—And you know about the king’s request of—”

  “The pope?” Aleksy asked. “Yes!”

  “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Another voice, sharp and unfriendly: “Unlike your decorum!”

  Aleksy’s eyes shifted right to see that the woman in brown was at Krystyna’s side, her hands capably dislodging Krystyna from his embrace. “You must come back, Krystyna.”

  Krystyna shook herself free. The woman was more than an annoyance. “Madame Heloise, this is Aleksy Gazdecki.”

  The woman shot Aleksy a cursory glance, her scowl deepening. “I have my orders. The queen said you are to wait.”

  “Wait and wait and wait, I know.”

  “Now, come away.”

  “Wait for what?” Aleksy interjected although he thought he knew the answer.

  “For the letter from Pope Innocent XI,” Krystyna said. “It’s due any day.”

  “And until then,” the woman said, “you have been remanded into my care.”

  “Just a few minutes, Madame. Please, just five—what could that hurt?”

  “You, if you know what’s good for you!” The woman tugged at Krystyna.

  “I do know what’s good for me!” Krystyna cried, pulling back.

  “And what is that?” came another voice.

  So focused had Aleksy been on the little drama that he hadn’t noticed a stir of softened voices and movement among those nearby. He looked up to see the dark-haired woman who had stood beside the king on the road to Vienna. He blinked in wonder at Maria Casimire Sobieska, Queen of Poland.

  He wore no hat to doff, but he bowed now, following suit to everyone who had taken notice of the queen.

  The queen’s hooded eyes were assessing him. “So this is the young hero, yes? A bit dirtied from the road, I see, but here in any case.”

  “My apologies, Your Majesty.”

  She raised her hand. “Not necessary, young man. You will have what befits the king’s remembrance—and mine—for Fanfan.”

  Aleksy became confused. “For—”

  “Fanfan. Oh, it’s a silly name. I told Jan—the king—as much, but it’s what he calls Prince Jakub—Fanfan.” She smiled. “We are grateful, Aleksy.”

  Aleksy could only nod.

  “Now, the letter we are all waiting for has yet to arrive, so until then Krystyna is to be chary with her presence. I’m certain you understand.”

  Aleksy nodded although he did not understand.

  “Krystyna, you may have two minutes. We will wait for you by the stairwell. Just two minutes or I will send the guards. Do you understand?”

  Krystyna gave a hesitant nod.

  “Goodbye for now, Aleksy,” the queen said and turned before Aleksy had finished his bow. “Come, Hellie,” she said.

  Her face a mask, the woman followed in the wake of the queen.

  “Chary,” Krystyna said, “it means stingy—stingy with my presence.”

  “I see.”

  Krystyna let out with a sigh. “Sweet Jezus and Maryja! You’ve only just arrived and we must part. Now, don’t look so sad, Alek! The letter will arrive soon—perhaps even tomorrow!”

  Aleksy was crestfallen. What was he to do now? He hadn’t thought beyond the reunion with Krystyna. Did he expect a storybook ending, one in which they were married immediately and set on their way to his yet-to-be-seen estate?

  “It’s a temporary disappointment,” Krystyna said, as if reading his mind. She took his hands in hers, her emerald eyes locking onto his.

  “How am I to know when the letter comes?”

  “I’ll send word immediately. Where are you staying?”

  He had no place to stay, no money for a room even. He drew himself up. He could not tell her that. “I—I will be near the river, in the area where the troops assembled before leaving. Send for me there. If I’m not there, have someone ask the old gypsy who has a wagon and tent at the water’s edge. I’ll keep her informed.”

  “A gypsy?” Krystyna’s eyes widened.

  Aleksy nodded. “A long story—for another time.”

  Krystyna flashed a smile, one that kept him rooted to the spot. “I must go now. The queen has been good to me.”

  “And the other one?”

  “Madame Heloise? She’s Mistress of the Robes and mean enough to steal the złotys from a dead man’s eyes.”

  Krystyna and Aleksy shared a laugh. She took a step toward him now and they embraced. He held her tightly but could not fight off the sudden dread he was experiencing. Somehow, he felt things were amiss, that things were not about to go right for them. What if Fabian Nardolski showed up and claimed her? And what if Roman arrived? Even with an annulment of the Nardloski ceremony, he would not allow his sister’s wedding to a Tatar to go forward. Without the king present, how would the queen handle the situation?

  “It’s time,” Krystyna was saying. She withdrew from him. “I must go.”

  He nodded and forced a smile.

  And then she was moving down the arcade, the swaying blue dress fairly floating away from him. Is this to be the way of it always?

  Aleksy directed Miracle down to the great open space by the river. It was not even two months but seemed a lifetime ago that the coalescing troops sat in camp awaiting the king’s arrival from Warsaw so that they could proceed to Vienna. He felt the pace of his heart quicken now as he prayed that he could locate the old gypsy woman. He had paid her four złotys: two to learn if he would ever become a soldier; two to learn what might become of his love for Krystyna. She had predicted he would see action—and he had. As for Krystyna, the old woman had been less than revealing, warning him that he would have many working against him. It did not bode well. What might she say today? But today he had no money at all. He cursed himself. The ruby dagger was treasur
e enough, but why hadn’t he thought to ask someone for money? He should have sold the damn thing.

  Aleksy drew reins. The field before him was empty except for the scattering of a few campsites of travelers or homeless peasants. His heart paused. What if she isn’t here, he thought, his fear rising not from anything that she might tell him, but from the knowledge that he had told Krystyna to contact him through her. What had possessed him? And the gypsy might very well have moved on to a more populated place. What money was to be made in this open space now?

  And then he saw her box-like and weathered wooden wagon. He sent Miracle into a trot, the hooves beating in time—so it seemed—to his heart.

  In but minutes he dismounted and walked his horse toward the gypsy who sat on a wooden stool in a well-worn gray dress and a new-looking scarlet scarf that attempted to hold captive her wild white hair. Smoking a pipe, she watched him approach.

  “You’ve become a soldier, I see,” she said. The bowl of the pipe glowed red as she drew on the bit.

  “A soldier of sorts,” Aleksy said, surprised that she remembered him.

  “You took your chances with a lance?”

  “I did.”

  “I expected as much.” She stood, imbibed a final time, released the smoke and struck the pipe against her wagon to dispel the remnants of ill-smelling herbs. She smiled then, revealing her few teeth. “You’ve come about your other wish.”

  Her statement brought him up short. How was it that the old crone could see into his mind? “I have no money,” he said.

  “Ah, a charity case. Tell me—?” She paused.

  “Aleksy.”