“A faux marriage, I see,” he whispered, hand to the side of his mouth. “I won’t ask for the details. Yes, I can do that. It will cost a sum, I can tell you.”
“I can pay. Are you able to show me a sample of your work?”
“You can read?”
“No,” Aleksy lied.
Feliks smiled, his expression seeming to say, I thought not. He stood up now, pushed the stool aside, and opened the top drawer. He shuffled through a number of documents and withdrew a short stack. “Ah, here are several copies that should recommend me.”
Aleksy took the oversized documents. They were written in a florid script in what he assumed was Latin. It was the fourth one of the six or seven that yielded even more than what he had hoped for. “This one,” he said, “is signed by a Father Franciszek. Who is he?”
“Ah, you read that much, huh? He is the priest who married those two.” He pointed to the names Lord Fabian Nardolski and Lady Krystyna Halicka.
“A genuine priest?”
Feliks flashed the smile of a well-sated fox exiting a hen house. “I am that priest. I played the part of Father Franciszek. Maybe you need the same services?” he asked, clearly enjoying the pun.
Aleksy turned away for a moment and called to Marzena, who had been unable to hold on to her customer. “I’ll have that ring in a moment, Marzena, if you’ll get it ready.”
He turned back to Feliks before she called a happy affirmative in reply and he picked up the previous thread of conversation. “No, I don’t need such services, but I do wish to repay you for your services in attempting to ruin the life of this young girl.” Aleksy pointed to Krystyna’s name on the parchment.
Feliks cast his eyes down, his expression screwing into one of wonderment, but as he lifted his face to Aleksy, a fist crashed into it with absolute force. He dropped like one of Aleksy’s deer kills.
Thirty-seven
Krystyna nearly fainted to find her father at the door to her chamber, led there by a servant. It took no more than fifteen minutes for her to open her heart to him. She found him surprisingly compassionate about the “marriage” perpetrated by her mother and Lady Nardolska. “Father, I am so happy you are here!” she exclaimed, once the story was out. “Why Queen Maria has arranged everything—who would have thought? She was horrified when she heard about the first ceremony and the deception that went on, but she was genuinely happy for me and Aleksy. She dearly loves the king, so I think that is why she understands us, Aleksy and me.—Do you understand, Father?”
“I do.”
Krystyna hugged her father, lamenting Roman’s absence and Marek’s death. When she looked up into her father’s eyes, the tears came. “And Mother—Mother refuses to come for my wedding.” She shook with sobs as her father held her.
“There, there, child. Do not blame her too much. She cannot help herself.”
“Is it because of her part in the charade of my first ceremony? I’ve written to her. I don’t blame her.”
“Sweet girl—I will try to follow your example.”
“Is it because Aleksy is not noble? You know the king has given him a small estate? He is no longer without means.”
“I know.”
“Is it that? Or is it his skin color? That he is a Tatar?”
“Perhaps it is that, my Krysia. Perhaps it is these reasons, as well as others. However, it is best to put it aside. This is your day.”
“Am I never to see her?”
Her father considered her question. “I’m sure you will.—Just wait until you and Aleksy present us with our first grandchild.”
“Will she accept him? Or her?”
“I have a feeling she will insist on the fastest team of horses we own to bring her to you. Think of that today.”
Krystyna swiped at her tears. “I will, Father. Thank you for coming!”
Nadya adjusted the collar of Aleksy’s newly-made żupan of Egyptian blue and looked up, her eyes shining with pride. Aleksy noticed for the first time that her eyes were as dark as his. In the few weeks of living next to her wagon, he had become quite attached to the gypsy. She appeared businesslike and even gruff to those meeting her for the first time, but that was the outer shell she wore, like a turtle, as protection; in her case a shell that shielded her from anyone who might take advantage of a gypsy woman living alone in open, often foreign and dangerous surroundings. Her heart, he learned, was wide as the sky. He had found the material for the long wedding coat at the Cloth Hall, but no seasoned tailor would agree to have it ready on short notice. Money was not the issue, for he had gotten a good price for the ruby-studded dagger. He could not help but wonder if their responses would have been different had he not been a dark-skinned Tatar. He let that thought go. Nadya had come to him, confessing that she was adequate with a needle and thread, and she proved it to the extreme. The cut and details of the żupan were perfect and the blue shimmered like a dark lake in winter. Beneath it he wore a white cotton shirt with a stand-up collar at the back. Nadya had embroidered with white thread the collar, cuffs, and the center laced opening that dipped to the middle of his chest.
“I want you to come to my wedding, Nadya.” It was his third such request. “My parents and brother have come from Halicz. I should like you to meet them.”
The gypsy waved her hand dismissively. “The sash is next,” she said, working about him the black and gold embroidered sash, arabesque in design. “Turkish cloth?” she asked.
“Polish!”
Nadya laughed. “It is odd, I think, how the Poles wear clothing styled by their current enemies. Ah, think young Aleksy, how the world would be if there was exchange between peoples in all things.”
“We might have peace.”
Nadya nodded as she pulled the sash tight and tied it. “A good length, Aleksy—for when you are lord of your manor house and have much to eat.”
They both laughed.
“Now, let me help you into your kontusz.”
The russet cloak with its open sleeves fit nicely over the żupan and draped to the new yellow boots of fine leather.
“Do come, Nadya. I never would have been prepared for this day if not for you.”
“Nonsense.” Nadya gave a little laugh. “And what would I wear to the Royal Castle? Me—among all those women in their fine silks—and in a Catholic chapel?”
“You won’t reconsider?”
She shook her head. “It is not my fate, Aleksy. It is yours.”
An hour later, Aleksy set out on foot for the castle, sporting a kolpak—a hat Nadya made from the blue żupan material, lining and trimming it with black fox fur and for the special occasion a fan of peacock feathers at the front. The gypsy’s words about fate still sounded in his head. Idzi had told him there was the changeable and the unchangeable. He had not forgotten. Despite his skin color, despite his peasant status, he was about to marry Lady Krystyna Halicka. Who would have thought it possible? That it was not unchangeable? Perhaps there was no such thing as the unchangeable.
Thinking about Idzi brought him up short. Guilt still weighed upon him for leaving him to the devices of Roman. It was not the first time he chastised himself for abandoning his friend. Was he being kept safe from the continuing battles with the Turks? Who was there to keep him safe from Roman? Had Idzi’s fate been unchangeable? He said a quick prayer for him as he entered the fortress and headed for the golden dome of Zygmunt’s Chapel, which adjoined the southern wall of the Wawel Cathedral.
Coming to the stone and marble façade, he passed through the gates of wrought iron grillwork and quickly moved to the heavy doors, heart racing like that of a Polish greyhound. He paused, hand on the door, knowing his life was about to change. He recalled now that same presentiment at Castle Hill in the moments before he met Krystyna for the first time. He drew in a deep breath and entered, remov
ing his hat. Coming in from the sunny outdoors, he found the narthex dark and strangely oppressive. That this chapel was King Zygmunt’s resting place made it an unlikely site to begin married life, but the choice had been Queen Maria Casimire’s, not his.
His eyes began to adjust as his father, mother, and Damian approached him, tightly embracing him, one and then the next, all full of excitement, smiles, soft laughs—and tears. They had arrived from Halicz the night before and the queen had seen that their accommodations at the castle were superior. They were all dressed in their Sunday church clothes, humble by comparison to denizens of the city, but not one of them seemed to care.
“Oh, Alek,” his mother cried. “Thank Our Lord Savior, you’re safe home from Vienna!” Tears splashed down her cheeks. “And now you’re to be married. Who could believe it?”
“I do.” Damian said. “Aleksy’s bow and fancy arrows weren’t about to let him lose out to a devil-Turk. And, by the way, brother, come next month I am to be married, too!”
“I see you’re not going to be outdone, Damian,” Aleksy said, laughing. “Who is the happy girl? The one from Horodenka?”
“Yes—Lilka!”
“Ah, Lilka. Congratulations, Damian.” Aleksy hugged his brother again. “You are in charge of this,” he said, slipping into his hand the silver-mounted amber ring meant for Krystyna.
Aleksy’s father, who stood by and had said almost nothing as if overawed by the unfolding scene, touched Aleksy on the shoulder and whispered, “Lord Halicki and his daughter are arriving.”
Count Halicki was dressed in a captain’s dress livery, a detail Aleksy would notice only later, for his eyes immediately took in Krystyna, who glided toward him like an angel in gold sunshine. She was a girl no more. The braids of a maiden had been unplaited so that her blond hair fell loose under a small wreath that held in place a long ivory veil that draped behind her. Leaving her shoulders bare, the brocaded satin dress featured a snug embroidered bodice that flared from her middle in a V configuration that called attention to the reveal of a décolleté and large, puffy sleeves cuffed at the elbow. As she moved, the tips of her matching gold slippers appeared beneath the voluminous folds of the gown.
He knew her smile must be reflecting his own as she approached him. “I know how you commented on my yellow dress,” she said, “so I sent home for it, but Mother refused to send it. When the queen’s ladies stepped in to see to the details of the wedding, I requested a yellow gown.—Did they go too far?”
Aleksy produced a full smile. “No, it’s beautiful, Krysia. You’re beautiful.”
“I’m going to miss my hair,” she said, giving forth with that little laugh that had often confused him. He knew that after the ceremony, her hair would be cut short and she would be fitted with an intricately designed wedding cap, symbolizing her entry into the circle of married women.
Aleksy smiled uncertainly. “I’m sorry, Krysia.”
Krystyna waved her hand dismissively. “And you are giving up your soldiering, so I care little about my hair.” Her eyes moved to the hat he held in his hand. “What is this bow tied about your peacock’s feathers?”
“Must you ask?” He himself had used the pink ribbon she had given him upon going to war.
Her hand moved to her breast. Somehow he expected one of her little laughs, but so overcome was she that she could manage only a little shake of her head.
Aleksy thought his heart would burst and was about to embrace her when his father gave a warning cough. “There are some traditional formalities to attend to,” his mother cautioned in a whisper, “before the queen and the others arrive.” She directed the couple to a small table covered in a white linen cloth. On it were a small dish of salt, two small pieces of rye bread, and a dainty glass of red wine. Aleksy’s father, brother, and Lord Halicki joined his mother as witnesses to the union. “The bread here is present to banish any future need or hunger,” his mother said. “The salt is to remind you that life will have its struggles and that you must cope with the hardships that may come your way.” She paused for effect. “Now, Krystyna Halicka, which do you choose—bread, salt, or the groom.”
Krystyna knew the prescribed answer. “I choose the bread, the salt, and the groom to make the money for it.”
Everyone laughed.
When Aleksy and Krystyna ate the bread, Lord Halicki presented the glass of wine to Krystyna, saying, “May you never thirst. May you always have a life together of good health, cheer, and company of good friends.”
Krystyna took the glass, drank, and offered it to Aleksy. When the glass was drained, there were kisses all around, three, on alternate cheeks, one right after the other. Aleksy and Krystyna were the last to kiss, and only they kissed on the lips.
The doors were opened now by palace guards, allowing in daylight and a small parade of the queen’s ladies. With smiles, nods, curious glances at Aleksy, and an occasional wink at Krystyna, they filed past the two families, followed by the queen herself, who stopped to congratulate the couple and family members. “I only wish the king were here today,” she said, her eyes on Aleksy, “you do know this young man saved my Jacob from certain death at the hands of heathens.”
Aleksy burned with embarrassment as the others nodded or spoke a few words.
When she swept away, moving up toward the front of the chapel, his mother whispered, the amber specks in her blue eyes glittering, “What a wedding this is to be!”
Light caught everyone’s attention again as the palace guards opened both doors for the entry of the priest.
Aleksy stepped forward. “This is Father Franciszek,” he announced. After introductions were made all around, the priest said to Aleksy, “So, you have your heart’s desire after all is said and done, my most fortunate boy.” He turned to Krystyna now. “In time, my dear, you will know how fortunate you are.”
Aleksy saw his mother swipe at her tears and turned to see pearls brimming at the tails of Krystyna’s eyes.
“Now,” Father Franciszek announced, “once I am at the altar, the families will process to the front. Aleksy and Krystyna come last, of course. Now, let’s get on with God’s work.” The priest turned and moved up the aisle toward the awaiting queen and her ladies.
No one had thought of music, so there was none. Aleksy’s father urged his wife to accompany Lord Halicki up the aisle so that he would not have to walk alone. As the two started their march, Aleksy glanced at Krystyna, whose face betrayed her longing for her mother at her wedding. He took and squeezed her hand. Her tears held back and she drew herself up, preparing for her march.
Now Aleksy’s father and Damian were moving forward.
Aleksy and Krystyna were left behind. “If you care to change your mind,” Aleksy said, “now is your chance.”
The emerald green eyes widened at his words. She grasped and squeezed his hand, but only after she had delivered her enigmatic laugh.
For once, Aleksy deciphered that nervous giggle. His heart brimmed full. He took Krystyna’s hand, and as customary, they began to process together toward the awaiting priest.
They were not yet halfway to the front when Aleksy heard a commotion behind them, at the doors. They kept walking, but the noise and voices persisted, grew louder.
The guards were denying entry to someone. Who?
Aleksy stopped, dropped Krystyna’s hand, and pivoted to face the half-open doors.
It seemed a soldier was arguing with the guards, demanding entry to the wedding. Before Aleksy could take a full reading of the scene, he noticed a small figure squeeze in between the guard and the man he was holding off with his halberd.
The figure raced into the chapel, his foreshortened legs doing double time. Aleksy took several long strides toward the little man, who stopped abruptly, realizing at once with no little shock he had the attention of everyone in the chapel
.
“Idzi!” Aleksy cried. “What is it?”
“It’s Roman,” Idzi said, catching his breath. “They won’t let him in—and perhaps they shouldn’t.”
Either Krystyna heard her brother’s name or she recognized him from afar. She swept past Aleksy and Idzi now in a gold blur of movement, gliding toward the doors.
“What’s his intention?” Aleksy demanded, his heart racing. “Why has he come?”
“That’s just it, Alek. I don’t know. He’s said nary a word. In Hungary, I thought I had talked sense into him.”
“How?”
“I told him the truth—that he was alive because one of your arrows flew true.”
“How did you know?”
“I saw it. I saw the whole thing, Alek.—And after I told him off, he decided, all sudden-like, that he was going to follow his father here to Kraków.”
“And he’s said nothing?”
“He shut up tighter than a clam.”
Aleksy suddenly realized that Krystyna was drawing near, hand in hand with Roman. His spine stiffened. Church or not, his first thought was for a weapon, but he had none. Nonetheless, he was prepared for a confrontation.
“I see we’ve arrived just in time,” Roman announced, heedless of the audience.
“In time?” Aleksy asked, heart at double time, nerves ready for anything.
“Indeed, Aleksy, indeed.” He shot a glance at Krystyna. “For my sister’s wedding!”
Aleksy knew that he could muster but the weakest of smiles.
“Doubt it not,” Roman said. Stepping forward and gripping Aleksy’s forearms, he leaned in and delivered the three prescribed kisses on alternating cheeks. When Roman released him and stepped back, he said, “Aleksy!—once again I have a brother!”
Aleksy tried to assess the midnight blue eyes. They were laughing, he was certain, but beyond that he was at a loss. Had this unchangeable become changeable?
The Boy Who Wanted Wings Page 39