“Tell me, Aleksy. Did you kill Turks?”
“I did.”
“Many?”
Aleksy nodded.
“The Turks have taken much from my family,” the gypsy said, a tremble in her voice. “Land, my home in Hungary… and many lives. Poland has been good to me. And also to you, a Tatar?”
“Yes.”
“Come sit on the ground near me.” For the first time, there was a hint of a smile.
Párkány, Hungary
It was night. While Idzi lay sleeping in the tent, Roman sat cross-legged on the ground nearby, his mind laden with thought. The second engagement with the young pasha, Kara Mehmed, played out very differently on 9 October than it had two days previously. The combined forces of the Poles at nine thousand and the Imperial troops at nearly seventeen thousand put the odds soundly in their favor over the pasha’s eight or nine thousand. When Kara Mehmed saw the number of Christians, he could only have figured his best chance lay in an attack. Working to his distinct disadvantage was the fact that he chose to meet the Austrian-Polish forces with a line of hills on his right, the River Gran to his rear, and the bridge over the River Danube the only way to withdraw. His attacking forces were repelled and, in turn, set upon by the allies. Their retreat was chaotic, made more so when the pontoon bridge collapsed, sending hundreds into the river and trapping thousands on the wrong side of the river.
The Christian victory seemed pre-ordained, and although Roman acquitted himself well, killing a score of Sipâhi and Janissaries, it was not the day’s triumph that he was savoring; rather, it was the memory of the ignominious defeat on Sunday that plagued him.
King Sobieski’s impulse to attack without waiting for the Imperial troops and the rest of the Polish forces had cost a thousand Polish lives. It would have cost the king his life, too, had it not been for Roman and five others who marshalled him to safety. Afterwards the king faced a crisis: a significant number of his men rebelled, demanding to go home or seek winter quarters, rather than risk a second encounter. Charles of Lorraine saved the day by calling attention to the fact that this time the numbers greatly favored the allies. The would-be rebels bowed to the king’s orders and stayed to fight. The king, however, also acquiesced in that he turned over command to Charles, whose forces took the lead. It was the king’s personal price of redemption, Roman thought. He wondered whether it was at all voluntary.
Roman was drawn from his despondency by the simultaneous approach of boot steps and a familiar voice.
“They say the king has written to Marysieńka calling today’s victory greater than that of Vienna.”
“Has he, indeed?” Roman asked his father, jumping to greet him. “Thank God, you’re all right.”
“And you, son,” he said, pulling Roman to him in an embrace. “Wounds?”
“None to speak of. It’s the good that die young.” The memory of Marek’s sacrifice struck him before the words were even finished. Even in the campfire light he could see the hurt flicker across his father’s face. He could think of nothing to repair the faux pas.
Mercifully, his father picked up his original thread of conversation. “It does seem an exaggeration, the king’s boast.”
Roman offered his father a little makeshift folding stool, then sat upon the ground. “He’s hoping the news will offset what occurred on Sunday.”
“When he nearly met his maker? A very close call, the way it was described to me… You were one of the six, I heard.”
“From him?”
“No—others.”
Roman grunted and looked away. He could feel his father’s eyes assessing him.
“Roman, has the king not acknowledged your—service?”
“No,” Roman growled.
“He will, I’m certain.”
“He’s had two days, Papa.” Roman jumped up, facing away from his father. “I fended off an attacker as we made the escape. I saved his life, for Chrystus’s sake!”
“I see.”
“Oh, I’m not looking for some reward—or—”
“The kind of recognition he gave Aleksy?”
“That filthy Tatar! No—just a word would have been enough. Dogs’ blood!”
“The man’s not without hubris, Roman. I think it goes with being a king.”
“And the man’s alive because of me!”
“I’m proud of you, Romek. You have no idea how proud.” He paused. “Now, tomorrow I plan to ask permission to go to Kraków.”
“From him?” Roman cried, pivoting back toward his father, the veins at his neck suddenly pulsing.
“Of course.”
“You’re not to say a word, do you hear? Not a word, Papa!”
His father stared. “If that is your wish.”
“It is—swear you will say nothing of Sunday.” Roman thought that he might indeed say something out of regret for not having recommended his sons for the elite Kwarciani corps.
His father nodded. “As you say, son.”
Roman felt the blood to his face ebb. And then the sense of his father’s request of the king came home to him and it flared again. “Kraków! You mean to stop the devil from marrying Krystyna. By God, I’ll go with you!”
“I want you to go, but—”
“But what? If the king says no, I’ll go anyway!”
“That’s not it, Roman. I’m not going to stop the marriage. And neither are you.”
“You’re going to allow Krysia to marry the Tatar?”
“I am.”
Roman stood silent. How was this possible?
“It’s what she wants, Roman.”
“She doesn’t know what she wants… What about Fabian? He’s here someplace, isn’t he? Isn’t he going to fight for her?”
“He is here. I saw him not an hour ago. He’s got a nasty shoulder wound. And,” his father said, shaking his head, “he’s not going to go against the king and Pope Innocent. It seems the king appeased him with the hint of some promotion after all this is over. I suspect he will get the royal nod for a seat in the Sejm. That’s been his goal.”
“The dog! A cholera on him!”
“Best to find out about his character now.”
“To hell with him! Lord Father, we can’t allow Krysia to do this!”
“She loves him—she’s gone to great lengths to prove it to me. Listen, Roman, I was not much older when I fell in love the first time.”
This declaration caught Roman by surprise. “Before Mother?”
“Yes, before. It can be real.”
“What happened?”
“I was not a fit candidate—according to her parents. And she—she was an obedient daughter.”
“That’s not like this, Papa. The Tatar will ruin her life. If we stop her, she’ll get over it. Do you really want Tatar grandchildren? What of mother? Surely she is not of the same mind?”
“No, she is not. I guess too many years have passed for her to remember what it was to be young and how she must have loved her first husband—your father. No, Roman, she and I are not in agreement. She will not be at the wedding, or so she writes.”
“Neither will I, Father.” Roman turned and spat upon the ground, then turned back. “The only reason I would attend would be to call the devil out to duel—or kill him outright in the church.”
Lord Halicki stood abruptly, knocking the stool over. “You will not!”
“And why not? He may be a master archer, but he can’t duel with a longbow, now can he?”
“Nonsense! You’re to stay here with the king, then. I won’t hear any more of this kind of talk.”
“And I won’t have a Tatar as a brother-in-law—I won’t! I’ll die first!”
“Listen to me, Roman! I told you once Aleksy was to have been ra
ised as your brother.”
“You did,” Roman snarled. “And does the Tatar know of your promise to the chieftain?”
“He did not—until I intervened in the elopement plans in Kraków. I told him then.”
“I see… so he must consider himself a privileged person?”
“You mean like us? No, I don’t think so.” Lord Halicki’s eyes held Roman’s. “But I consider him as privileged as you and Krystyna.”
Roman’s head swam with confusion and anger. “What?”
“I did Aleksy a terrible disservice in not being true to my oath. He should have been raised as brother to you and to Marek and to Krystyna.”
“I thank God that Mother didn’t allow him in our home.”
“And I ask God to forgive me.”
Roman spat again. “So he thinks he has found a way into our home through Krystyna—Chrystus Jezus!”
His father’s expression became screwed into one as stern as Roman had ever seen. “You will accept this, Romek,” he said.
Roman saw tears at the tails of his father’s eyes. There was no changing his mind, and so he let the subject drop. After some minutes of uneasy silence, they sat again, and they discussed the campaign against the Turks. It had not ended with Vienna or the recent victory at Párkány. The task was not finished. King Sobieski was determined to thoroughly rout the Turks. No battle would match the magnitude of the Vienna clash, but father and son were in agreement on this one point at least: more battles were to be had.
His father hugged him before leaving, but Roman stood like stone, unwilling and unable to respond. After some moments, his father held him at arms’ length. “You’ll come to accept this,” he said, “you must. She is your sister and she deserves to be happy.”
Roman was left standing alone, as if paralyzed, reflecting on his father’s words and intention to allow the marriage to occur, his anger refueling and building within him like the promise of a great storm. “Dogs’ blood!” he cried aloud. Damn you, Father! And damn you to hell, Aleksy Gazdecki! He cursed his brother Marek’s absence. He cursed his father’s oath and created his own as he stared up at the moon—half-hidden behind a screen of feathery clouds—vowing to die before he would see Krystyna marry the dark-skinned Tatar.
“Dogs’ blood!” he cried again, kicking out at the earth, sending up dust and pebbles.
Suddenly he heard a noise behind him. He whipped around, blood pumping, his hand going for his dagger, ready to strike.
Without any need to stoop, Idzi was just exiting the tent. He looked up at Roman, his sharp blue eyes registering surprise to see the poised dagger, but fearless just the same. “If you must kill me, aim true, milord,” Idzi said. “I don’t want to linger.”
The dwarf’s drollness often entertained Roman—but not today. He had forgotten he was sleeping in the tent. “Don’t tempt me. Tell me, what did you hear?”
Idzi stared for a moment, considering his response, then said, “Between you and your father?”
Roman realized at once that he had heard everything. He drew himself up as if to make a display of looking down at Idzi. “You’re to keep your mouth shut, do you hear?”
“I do,” Idzi said, unblinking. “I wish to go, too, Lord Roman.”
“What?”
“I wish to go—with your father.”
“What, so you can attend the ceremony? So you can stand witness to your Tatar friend’s marriage?”
Idzi’s steady gaze was his answer.
“You can forget that. The king has other battles to fight until the Turks are run out of Hungary altogether.”
“You can manage for a short while, Lord Roman. I’ll return.”
“A short while!” Roman let out a great guffaw. “You should be the king’s clown.”
Idzi weathered the insult.
“No, my little dwarf-friend, you’ll not be going anywhere.”
“You’ve told me I’m of no use to you.”
“It’s slight enough, I’ll agree to that, but you’re all I have, what with the dark devil gone off.”
Idzi stepped closer to Roman. “Your father thinks you’re bitter that the king hasn’t shown you any kindness since you helped him escape a bad situation.”
“A bad situation?” Roman snarled. “Death himself on a pale horse was all but upon him!” He drew in a long breath. “I don’t want anything from the king!”
“Ah, it seems to me, Lord Roman, that you have something in common with the dark devil.”
Roman felt his spine stiffen. “What did you say, dwarf?”
“That Aleksy did more than save Prince Jakub.”
“Indeed?”
“And like you, he received no thanks.”
Roman felt a strange tightness somewhere about his belly. “Go to bed, Idzi. We’re done for the night. You shouldn’t believe any rubbish the Tatar tells you.”
“I was there, Lord Roman.”
“What?—Where?”
“On a hill overlooking the field where you were bent over your dead brother.”
“You lie.”
Idzi shook his head. “You were too filled with grief to notice the Turk coming at you.”
“I saw him. I was just getting up to engage him.”
“Too slowly, milord, too slowly. An arrow to the Turk’s heart saved you.”
“You were there?”
Idzi nodded. “He wore the pointed helmet of a Sipâhi warrior and he had the advantage.”
“So what? Someone’s arrow got in his way. I remember little of the battle. Luck was with me then—and other times, too. That’s the way of it.”
“Did you not see the ash arrow and gray goose-feathers?”
“I did not.” Roman closed his eyes. Truth was there behind the closed lids. He had seen the familiar feathered shaft. He had. But he did not turn to see the direction from which it came. Such was his choice, and in the weeks since, he was able to distance himself from that day, recalling only the loss of his brother. Not the person who had saved his own life. Not…
He opened his eyes after a time to see that Idzi had walked over to the fire, passing him by. The dwarf was staring at him with round, knowing eyes. “I see that you do remember.”
Roman felt his jaw tighten, his teeth cutting into his lower lip. Idzi’s presumption galled him, as did his nerve and sense of righteousness. He spoke now through clenched teeth. “Know your place, Idzi. Now, go to bed. And take your pallet outside the tent. Tomorrow we talk.”
It was the sort of intense order that the retainer knew not to disobey. Idzi seemed to assess the situation and words died in his throat. He nodded and started to retrace some twenty paces to the tent.
As Idzi passed, Roman stretched out his leg, sending him sprawling.
Roman turned at once and walked out into a moonlit vineyard well-trampled by horses and men. At the end of a row of crushed vines he came to a large rock and sat down. He could hear the spirited voices of soldiers at their campfires telling their stories of war.
War, he thought. There were those who hated it and could not wait to go home and there were those who adapted well to it and were ready for the next battle, the next charge, the next kill. He belonged to the latter group. Oh, he had been confident that he would be a good soldier, but he had not expected the rush of blood that pulsed through his veins and made every part of him feel alive when the hussars formed up and the command was given: “Lower your lances!”
He fought for a Christian Europe and for king and country, as well as for family, but he had come to learn this about himself: he fought for the love of fighting. His only regret was allowing Marek to volunteer for the first and most dangerous of sorties. He blamed himself for not disobeying his father’s request that they would not both volunteer for such a
suicidal mission.
He thought of Marek lying there, mortally wounded. The scene replayed in his head as it never had before: the white and lifeless face against the brown earth and the blood, the red Halicki blood, darkening and seeping into a field far from home. Idzi had seen through his lie. Yes, he had seen and recognized the arrow that killed the Turk that day, as effectively as the one that had stopped the heart of a rabbit a Tatar had poached on Mount Halicz. He spoke of luck to Idzi. A strange thing, luck, he thought. He had ordered Ludwik to accompany Marek and kept Aleksy behind so that he could put an end to the boy once the battle commenced. His stomach contracted. Had Aleksy gone, he might very well have protected Marek. Instead, Marek was gone, buried deep at Vienna, and he was alive, saved from certain death by the Tatar, Aleksy Gazdecki.
Luck! Aleksy was off to Kraków to marry Krystyna. Roman felt his pulse rush in ways far different from those at the front lines of battle.
Kraków, he thought, and a marriage performed under the auspices of the King and Queen of the Commonwealth. He spat and cursed.
What was there to be done?
Thirty-six
Kraków
Queen Maria Casimire had forbidden Krystyna to leave the castle. For your own benefit she was told in the most solicitous way by Madame Heloise. And so the days ticked by in anxious anticipation of a document—the letter from Pope Innocent XI. The queen and her ladies at court assumed that the marriage to Fabian Nardolski would be annulled, given the circumstances: namely, that a proxy wedding had been imposed upon the bride, that consummation had not taken place—and most importantly, that the Pontiff was likely to look favorably upon any request from the king who had successfully done his bidding. How could he do otherwise? After all, people were already calling Pope Innocent XI the “Savior of Europe” for having initiated the Holy League—with King Jan III Sobieski at its head—that was seeing even now to the expulsion of infidels from Christian Europe.
Days went by. Krystyna wondered about Aleksy. Was he as impatient as she? How was he to be informed once the document arrived? Was a messenger to take it to him? She longed to be the one to tell him that their path had been cleared, that they were free to marry. What a blessed day it would be. Would the queen allow her—chaperoned, of course—to find this gypsy he had spoken of? To tell him face to face that they were to forge a life together?
The Boy Who Wanted Wings Page 36