“Tell me, was the queen involved in the arrangements?”
“No, she had locked herself away in her chapel. She believed the fighting at Vienna was occurring at that very moment.”
“So who planned it?”
“My mother and Fabian’s mother, Lady Nardolska.”
“How badly did they wish for the marriage to take place?”
“Speaking for my mother, very badly. She saw the marriage as a rise in fortune for the whole family.”
“And a way to keep me at a distance for good?”
Krystyna nodded. “They said you had died.”
“What about the banns?”
“They said the bishop had given us a dispensation. Because of the impending battle.”
“So there were none?—Who officiated?”
“Why are you asking these things? Who have you been talking to?”
“Who officiated, Krystyna?” Aleksy persisted. “Tell me!”
“Father Franciszek.”
“From here—at the cathedral?”
“Yes, so he said. Aleksy, who is it that gave you these doubts? Berta went on and on about the gypsy. Was it she?”
Aleksy felt his face flush and wondered if it was visible in the dim and flickering candlelight. He was embarrassed to admit he had taken Nadya’s words seriously. What could she know? Even though Father Franciszek had—unwittingly or not—been involved in the scuttling of his elopement plans, Aleksy had no cause to think the proxy ceremony performed by the priest was anything other than valid and ironclad. He sensed tears in the tails of his eyes. His arms dropped to his side, defeated. Nadya was wrong.
“Listen, Alek, I ran away once to follow you—and I’ll do it again.”
“No, you won’t. What kind of a life would we have? I won’t allow it. And you know as well as I that they would come for you.”
They went silent now, realizing how very still it had become upstairs. The Communion chant and the shuffling of feet on marble had ceased. The Postcommunion prayers were being offered now.
“You must go now, Krysia.”
“When am I to see you again?”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea. You were right that day on Grodzka Street. We should have parted then. You have a different path.”
“Don’t say that, Aleksy.” Her eyes streamed tears. “Don’t say that.”
“Go up,” he said, his voice breaking.
“No.”
Knowing how willful she was, he took hold of her upper arm and ushered her up the darkened stairwell.
The bishop was giving the people his final blessing. Aleksy meant not to say a word when they emerged from the crypt, but at that very moment he noticed Father Franciszek across the way. He had finished his Mass and was just leaving the side chapel.
A dormant hatred suddenly rose up in Aleksy. “There’s our unsuspecting culprit,” he said in a hiss.
“What?—Who?”
“There—just leaving that chapel. The prelate your brothers lured away from the rectory.” Aleksy turned to Krystyna to make certain she was focusing on the priest.
She was. “Who is it?” she asked.
“Father Franciszek,” he whispered. He could see the queen and her ladies recessing down the aisle now. He needed to send her off to them at once—before they were discovered.
Krystyna was taking a close inspection of the priest. “Sweet Jezus,” she said.
“What?—What is it?”
“Aleksy, that is not Father Franciszek. That is not the man that performed the wedding.”
One of the women in the queen’s entourage sighted them now.
Aleksy wanted to tell her to go, but her statement had stolen the words. If Father Franciszek had not married them, then who had? Is this the deception Nadya spoke of?
Krystyna drew herself up now and her facial expression took on an understanding, as if she was taking the measure of something—or someone.
“Krystyna—”
She turned to him and spoke quickly. “Listen to me, Alek, go now. I will get to the bottom of this in short order. Let’s pray that your gypsy is right. I’ll send word.”
Aleksy waited for the cathedral to clear out before making his exit. His intention was to talk to Father Franciszek. This was not the first time that he had thought about confronting him regarding the day Lord Halicki usurped the prelate’s place in the rectory. He had not done so because he had no wish to revisit that memory. He had his doubts at first but, in time, came to accept as truth the priest’s contention that the Halicki brothers had taken him away from the rectory on some ruse.
No—that was water already over the falls. What Aleksy wanted to know now was the identity of this other Father Franciszek. Where was he to be found?
Emerging from the cathedral into the light, Aleksy sighted the priest off to the side at his usual station, selling his little medals of Saint Stanislaus. He had a throng of well-wishers and people wishing to purchase holy keepsakes surrounding him, a crowd that seemed to grow as the time for the next service grew near.
Aleksy stood there a long while, impatiently awaiting his opportunity to speak to him alone, an opportunity that did not come, for the priest suddenly reentered the cathedral. Aleksy guessed he would say yet another Mass.
He turned and headed for the river.
Krystyna lay in wait. Berta knew to arrive at the queen’s rooms at mid-morning when the ladies-in-waiting would be gathered in her reception room sewing, reading, and talking quietly. She would ask Madame Heloise to come to Krystyna’s room. If she balked, Berta was to say Krystyna’s health was at stake.
The day before, after she joined the queen and the other ladies as they left the cathedral, she spied the priest who Aleksy had identified as Father Franciszek. He was selling medals. Deliberately guiding the Mistress of the Robes over to the priest, Krystyna made a show of buying one.
“Wouldn’t you like one?” Krystyna asked Madame Heloise.
“No!” the woman snapped. “Hurry or we won’t be able to catch up to the others.”
Krystyna had positioned herself between the priest and Madame Heloise so that she could surreptitiously observe her reactions. The woman was always in full control, of the servants, of the other ladies, and even seemed to have special latitude in the queen’s presence. But there, at the front of the Wawel Cathedral, Krystyna took note of another side of her. She had paled considerably and a little tic manifested itself at the corner of her mouth. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The priest unnerved her—why?
Krystyna paid the priest and turned to Madame Heloise. “There—finished.”
“Good—now come along.”
Krystyna obeyed. She had the knowledge she wanted.
And so now she waited.
A knock came at the door. “Entrez-vous!” Krystyna called.
Berta pushed open the door and allowed Madame Heloise to enter. Having done so, she curtsied and backed out of the room.
The abrupt closing of the door caused Madame Heloise to look back, but it was the clicking of the lock that threw her off guard.
“What has that woman done?” she cried. With a quick, worried look at Krystyna, Madame Heloise rushed the few steps to the door and attempted to open it—unsuccessfully.
“She has locked the door,” Krystyna said in a perfectly modulated tone. “I gave her the key. You needn’t fret. She’ll open it when I ask her to.”
“Then do it now!” the woman ordered.
“No, we are going to have a little tête-à-tête, Heloise.”
The Mistress of the Robes stiffened at Krystyna’s familiarity. “About what?”
“About Father Franciszek.”
Her eyes grew large and had she been w
earing a cap, her forehead would have pushed it back an inch. She had no words.
Krystyna went to her dressing table, picked up the medal of Saint Stanislaus, pivoted back to Madame Heloise and held out the medal. “That nice priest who for a small pittance gave me this was named Father Franciszek.”
The woman’s eyes widened slightly. “Yes—so?”
“That is also the name of the priest that officiated at my wedding.”
Madame Heloise’s face flushed pink. “So there are two.” She shrugged. “It’s a common name.”
“The priest with the medals lives in the cathedral rectory, as does the other Father Franciszek, or so he told me on the day of my wedding.”
The Mistress of the Robes drew herself up, her face a mask. “Ask that woman to open the door.”
“Not until I have some answers.”
“Have her open it or I shall scream down this castle.”
“Stone by stone, no doubt. But you should not be too hasty. You’re privy to secrets, I’m certain, and I’ll have them out before you leave this room.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Take it as you wish. Who is this other Father Franciszek—this phantom priest?”
“Your mother and mother-in-law arranged the ceremony.”
“And you played no part in this?”
“No.”
“You’re lying! Was he even a real priest?”
“Of course.”
“Another lie! I can see it on your face. I was made to sign something—what was it? Was it a certificate of marriage?”
“You should talk to your mother about this.”
“She’s in Halicz. No, you’re going to tell me. Who is this other Father Franciszek?”
“I will say no more to you.” The woman turned for the door.
Krystyna grasped her by the shoulder and spun her around. “Did the queen play a part in this? She had been sequestered in her rooms and chapel, praying for her husband and the relief of Vienna. What did she know about this?”
“Nothing! She knew nothing.”
“Ah, there we have it, don’t we? It was a phony ceremony cooked up by you, my mother, and Lady Nardolska.”
“Listen to me, Krystyna, they assured me they had your best interests at heart.”
“But you never did, did you? You’ve treated me with disdain ever since that day in the carriage. Still, they must have paid you handsomely.”
“Ask the woman to open the door now.”
“After you tell me the man’s true identity.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You can and you will. You are the Mistress of the Robes, yes? The senior lady in Her Majesty’s household? The faithful one to whom the queen seeks for company when her beloved is gone? Perhaps you even offer comfort and advice? Although she seems strong-willed—oh, and intolerant of deception, wouldn’t you say? How will it go for you when she hears of this? When she hears that her husband has made a fool of himself by asking the pope himself for the annulment of a marriage that never was? There’s no telling how she will react, is there, Heloise—or what is the pet name the queen has for you—Hellie?”
The woman was trembling and starting to sob. “You would tell her?”
Krystyna pulled the vanity stool over to her and handed her a cloth for her tears. “Sit, Hellie. We are nearly finished.”
Before dawn even broke, Aleksy arrived at Market Square, where carts were being rolled in from adjoining streets and local vendors were starting to set up their wares in the areas surrounding the Sukiennice—the Cloth Hall—where a good deal of local and international trade was carried out.
The message from Krystyna had come by way of Berta the night before. It was cryptic, as if it was written quickly. “The marriage is no marriage. Look for a man named Feliks at the Sukiennice, a man who knows Latin and Russian. He is the key.”
“A man named Feliks,” Aleksy muttered to himself, entering the hall. It was a common enough name in Polish or Russian. There could be dozens of men in the mammoth hall with that name. Its extraordinarily long walkway featured dozens upon dozens of trading stalls on either side. The Cloth Hall was the bartering place for much more than textiles. The oddly aromatic mixture of the scents of leather and spices wafted through the open air building as he walked among Polish merchants who dealt in grain, livestock, fur, lead, iron, copper, marble, and salt from the nearby Wieliczka Mine, as well as a varied array of fabrics and textiles. Foreign purveyors were preparing their showcases of leather goods, tools, tapestries, wax, silk, wine, beer, and fragrantly exotic spices.
By the time Aleksy had made two full passes up and down the walkway, most of the merchants were at work within their stalls. He drew in breath, fortifying himself with the stamina he would need and began asking the merchants or their helpers if they had any knowledge of a man named Feliks. By the time he finished his search on one side of the hall, he had located four men by the name of Feliks. Two knew no Russian, one could speak a little but knew no more Latin than what he heard at Mass, and one was fully Russian yet lacking knowledge of Latin.
Aleksy turned about and began his questioning of the other side of the hall, wondering just what Krystyna had learned. Might Father Franciszek provide a clue? Would his time be better served by seeking out and questioning the priest? He looked about the increasingly busy Cloth Hall, determining that if this quest proves fruitless, a visit to the cathedral rectory would be in store for the afternoon.
The morning dragged on as he canvassed the other side of the Cloth Hall. Here he ran into fewer men named Feliks but more people intent on bending his ear because they were merely being genial or hoping to sell him something. He found that merchants—men and women—could be tenacious and downright cloying. This side took a good deal longer than the other one, and to no better end. No one seemed to know the person Krystyna had described.
He determined that he would go directly to the cathedral and pivoted now to walk the length of the hall for the final time, hoping to avoid the eyes of the most talkative merchants. He was at the middle of the hall when a woman he had already questioned called him over. Marzena, a plump older lady with long, wild silver hair, oversaw a jewelry stall that showcased amber jewelry, as well as raw amber. It took little time to realize she merely wanted to make her first sale of the day. He felt a bit sorry for her and allowed her to recreate her line of persuasive gabble, insisting that such a young, strapping young man must have a lady and that an amber ring set in silver was just the thing to bind up her heart. The ring she showed him was a beautiful thing, he admitted, and it was while he was considering its purchase that his eyes wandered to one corner of the stall where he sighted a stool and a high desk, the type he imagined one might find in an office. On its slanted top he could see books or ledgers of some sort. Certainly this woman could not read and write.
“That desk over there, Marzena—”
“Oh, my boy, tain’t for sale, that.”
“Who uses it? Your boss?”
“Not him. No, my boss is who rented the stranger the space.”
“The stranger? Does he have a name?”
Marzena shrugged. “Calls himself ‘the scholar’ hoping to impress folks, I guess. Doesn’t deign to talk much to me.”
“What is his business?”
“He translates sometimes. Sometimes he writes letters for those who can’t write. Or he reads them documents they can’t read.”
“Can he speak Russian?”
She nodded.
“Does he know Latin?”
“I don’t know. It wouldn’t surprise me none.”
Marzena picked up the amber ring and was about to revert to her sales pitch when he felt someone pass closely behind him. Marzena’s focus had been drawn to the passing figure, too, and she cu
rsed under her breath.
In just moments the figure was ducking under the counter at the far end of the stall. Once inside, he glanced briefly at Marzena and Aleksy before going to the high desk and hoisting himself up onto the stool. Dressed in the robes of a scholar, the man was bald, plain-faced, and well-fed. Aleksy judged him to be about fifty years old.
Wihout even a conscious thought, Aleksy strode to the end of the stall, slipped under the counter, and proceeded toward the tall desk.
Marzena started to call out something, but one look from Aleksy silenced her.
“You are Feliks, yes?”
The man was genuinely startled. “Yes, yes. Do we have an appointment? Do you need a translation?”
“Latin?” Aleksy questioned. “Can you translate something into Latin?”
“Ah, yes, of course.” He was recovering from his initial sense of caution. Like Marzena, who stood to the side watching, he was perhaps generating coins in his head.
“And tell me also, Feliks, can you work from a Russian document?”
“Naturally, my son. My mother was Russian, you see, but that carries little weight around here, I can tell you.… Now, what do you have for me?”
Aleksy smiled. “A surprise, perhaps.”
Feliks smiled—but his face had folded into a question.
“I need a marriage certificate. Can you create one?”
Feliks’s eyes widened. “Ah, one without the auspices of Mother Church, is that it?” He winked.
“Yes.”
“I shouldn’t ask the circumstances?”
“No.”
“I am curious,” he whispered so as not to allow Marzena to hear. Her attention, however, was taken up with a customer.
Aleksy shrugged.
“You are a glib young man. If we are to do business—”
Aleksy coughed and feigned embarrassment. “The young lady is to be led to think it is a real document.”
The Boy Who Wanted Wings Page 38