“And what a fine piece of chance that this wealth should come when so many need to travel to Paris—at my expense,” he ruminated aloud. He chuckled. His only concern throughout the evening was the pious attitude of his counselor, a man who held the high moral ground and was not so easily mollified. “Poor priest, he just does not know how the world works.”
The plague, alas, was real, and could not be wished aside. There had hardly been a year since mid-century when the dread disease had not struck somewhere in the vastness of the kingdoms surrounding his own, stealing the lives of thousands. Wherever the pestilence chanced to light, it was like a deranged bird in random flight dropping the seeds of its evil fruit. It had been some years since one variety or another had inflicted itself upon Zygmunt Sokorski’s domain, but he decided to elude its grasp, if at all possible.
The duke and his entourage of nearly forty fortunate souls, family, servants, and soldiers decamped from Poznan in record time. Had the storm not appeared Sunday evening, he might have left the city by Tuesday morning, but the storm’s severity made his schedule for him.
Interestingly, he thought to himself, smiling, the threat of plague had somehow made the drying process go faster, and with hard work, all was ready on Wednesday morning. Preparing for a journey to so distant a place as Paris would have been tedious at another time, but having to do so in the spring made everything easier. They were travelling light, he knew, but fortunately, many royal houses along the way would give them comfort and replenishment.
To no one would he ever admit his abject fear of an end from plague. Before battle, he had been scared, but when men faced each other with swords, he could defend himself. Plague permitted no defense, knew no class, and rarely left survivors. That fact he well knew. He needed no excuse to leave the city in advance of the Great Mortality, but an invitation from the Holy Roman Emperor made haste even more desirable—and convenient.
Two hours before the day managed its end, he and the favored few departed. It was not customary for an entourage to depart so close to nightfall, only to set camp some few miles distant, but the duke knew that to wait even a few hours endangered them all. Moreover, he guessed it could be most difficult to leave the city by next light once news of plague maddened the lower classes—and laborers within the castle—beyond even his control. He wondered if Bishop Tirasewicz would take his leave of the city in time. He wondered, too, if their departure would even make a difference in their living or dying.
…
Irina and Velka, along with Sisters Margaret and Marta, their bundles of clothing, and Rosta, a serving man, all awaited the bishop’s blessedly delayed assemblage. As the minutes passed, Irina studied Sister Marta. She was immediately drawn to the young nun, if for no other reason than she had the same name as one of her little sisters. It made her wonder about her family, if they missed her, and if they truly despised what she had done. In her mind’s eye, she could see little Zuzanna winking at her and smiling broadly.
When, at last, the bishop’s wagons rumbled into view, a high tension prevailed, but it was not Mother Superior who came to greet him. It was Sister Rose who bowed in homage to His Grace, Antony Tirasewicz.
“Excellency. Mother Superior is indisposed and begs your pardon for not greeting you. She and several of the sisters are making their way through the city to secure provisions and prepare for what’s to come.” Her look suggested Mother Superior would never beg his pardon, but the old nun kept to her best manners.
“No offense taken,” Bishop Tirasewicz responded, not offering his ring to be kissed. It was as if he wanted no contact, even from atop his coal black stallion. In his high, thin voice, devoid of emotion, he inquired, “Are these the ones Mother Superior wishes me to take under my protection?”
“Yes, Bishop.” There was no respect, only obedience. “Lady Irina Kwasniewska and her serving girl will be with you, as well as Sisters Margaret and Marta. Rosta will take care of their baggage.”
The cleric shot his piercing gaze in the nun’s direction, and looking down at her over his hawk-like nose, he parted his thin lips to form his words with a superior tone. “I hope Mother Superior knows what an expense I must bear to take these strangers.”
“She does, Bishop.” In so saying, Sister Rose cast a glance in Irina’s direction.
“Excellency,” Irina said in a quiet voice, bowing deeply, “we are prepared to support ourselves and these others of the convent in gratitude for your own generosity.” Irina carried off her imitation of nobility with grace. The bishop smiled in return, especially when offered a small pouch, clearly of some weight. He looked askance at the dog by the woman’s side, but she carried gold, and he didn’t seem to mind touching it.
“Welcome, my children,” he said with a broad, forced smile. “Let’s be off. We are half a day behind Duke Zygmunt and we must join him in two days’ time if we are to have his protection in the days ahead.”
…
“Should we be taking this child?” the young novice asked her Mother Superior, as they and two workingmen made their way back toward church and its sanctuary.
Mother Superior did not respond. She and her two young assistants sought whatever foodstuffs they could buy and carry, not for themselves, but for the few who would survive the plague. Too, they would sweep the streets of those visibly ill. In the case of the pretty little girl, she could not fend for herself. Now they were laden with food, ale, several stricken adults, and a small child.
Mother Superior knew from prior visits of the dreaded disease that time was not a friend to them. Of the two kinds of plague, the more aggressive variety allowed its prey no chance to say goodbye, no consolation of a priest’s blessing. Sadly, the dying somehow shared the disease with nearly everyone who spent even the briefest time with them. Whatever the circumstance, the nun knew, in the end, there was nothing to do for any of them except make their last hours of some comfort. Everyone was at risk, but aloud, to no one in particular, she said, “What else is to be done?”
“You said something, Mother?”
It was too early to determine what kind of plague had come to them this beautiful May. Everyone knew that the springs and summers had been wetter the past few years, and the winters, harshly cold. With the damp days and nights, people seemed more prone to illness, and the plague spread like a flooding stream after a torrential rain.
In the meantime, the nuns had already collected six or seven people who were clearly ill, but could walk. She tied them, one to another, with a heavy string, so that they would stay together and follow her to the convent courtyard, where, she knew, most would see their last bit of sunshine. In hours, there would be many more, and the nuns would go out again like the fishermen on the river casting their nets.
“Yes, in answer to your question, Sister,” she finally said to the trembling novice, barely sixteen years of age. Each time the plague struck, the Dominicans performed their mercies, and a number of them would die. Mother Superior herself had thus far eluded the grim reaper, but she wondered how many in her charge would be alive by the end of May. “Yes,” she repeated, “this one seems to have no one to care for her, and if her people are able, they will know where to come to find a lost child.”
Then, leaning down and giving the child a big smile, she asked, “What is your name, little one?”
The little girl did not respond to the question but asked one of her own as the lady in black reached for her hand. “Do you know where my mama and papa are? Did they leave me?”
“Of course not, little one. They will come to the church to find you.”
The child smiled brightly, happy to be in someone’s care, anyone’s care.
At the church, the young novice took the little girl to the kitchen where Sister Rose, the cook—and the only nun older than Sister Elisabeth—could keep an eye on her.
Sister Rose bent low and with a broad smile that spread wrinkl
es all over her face, looked at the child closely. The little one in front of her did not seem to be from the city, judging by the homespun, simple clothing, ragged from wear and giving off wisps of a barnyard. The child’s soft, light-brown curls, tinged with auburn, topped a serious and pretty face.
“And did you tell the other sister your name, little one?”
The girl did not respond at first, but said, at last, “They call me Zuzzie.”
“Child,” she said, “it is as if you just left here. You could be Lady Irina’s little sister!”
Chapter IV
1378
Stanislaus the potter profited little from his time in Srodka. The usual run of business wasn’t there, and indeed, as he scratched his beard and pulled a nit from its depths, people seemed to be moving faster all day long and few wanted to buy.
Mutterings about the Jews and the Great Mortality were aplenty, but he knew from years chatting with caravanners one had nothing to do with the other. It did little good to tell people that, however. It was the only truth they knew, after all. And when they were in a growl about something, they bought little from the stalls.
He hadn’t wanted to stay the night in Srodka, but all the craziness in the city meant it would not have been safe to make his way back to his small household in Poznan. He’d had a miserable sleep, but this morning, he trudged his way down the Fareway, laden with straw-packed sacks of bowls, cups, and simple pitchers.
At the far side of the Mary & Josef, he took a good look around him. The arrival of eastern caravans usually heralded excitement, celebratory noise, and quenched thirsts. Today the voices around him told a different story, however. Sounds of the night before were burdened with the fear of being on the wrong side of the mob. The evidence of spent wrath was everywhere. Overturned carts, a dead horse here and there, a number of burnt houses, and not a few untended bodies, already beginning to bloat, created obstacles in his path. Flies flourished, but not on him.
With his precious goods in hand, Stanislaus danced over the wasted goods and lives and hurried on his way. Already, there was a stench clinging to the air. From loosed bowels and decaying flesh, the air seemed thick with more death.
As he pondered this, he began to perspire and seemed unduly weary from his short journey, one he’d made hundreds of times. His soiled tunic became damp with sweat, and the wooden rack of goods on his back grew heavy. Perhaps it was a good thing the shop wouldn’t be busy this day, though a few extra pennies for food wouldn’t hurt.
Once back at Poznan, he first checked to see if anything had been filched, a frequent occurrence with no one around to attend things. His wife and three children had died of fever some years before, and now he was alone. Next, he went around back to the barn and stood at the entrance, his form casting a long shadow across the hay-strewn mud floor. He swore again as he saw shapes sleeping there. Then he noticed that flies had gathered on them and that none of them slapped away at the rats scampering over their legs.
Stepping closer, he kicked at the legs of the man. Stiff, he was. They were dead, all of them. Apparently, a mother and father with three little ones. Dead. But of what? There wasn’t a mark on them. They just seemed at peace, as if in deep slumber after a long day’s work.
What killed them? It couldn’t be plague, he reasoned. None of the five had the telltale buboes or festering blisters he had seen years before. Stanislaus decided not to take chances. Why would this family die all together, all at once, and in his barn? It was puzzling, to be sure. They weren’t there yesterday morning, he knew, and it was an aggravation he didn’t need.
He hurried to find a cart so they could be taken away, quietly. With some effort, he hoisted the bodies onto the cart’s wooden bed. He felt badly for the family, but worse for himself. He couldn’t stop sweating, and now his head hurt. They weren’t his responsibility, but if neighbors knew they died in his barn, they might burn his house—and with him in it.
Slowly, quietly, while many were napping after their midday meal, he pushed the cart, overladen and covered with straw, to a nearby field and dumped the bodies there. On the way back, he thought about things. Whether the Jews did anything to deserve their fate or not, life was bound to be better without them. But without them, he wondered, who would people blame for their bad fortune?
He swatted away the flies that now seemed to follow him as he wandered back to his barn. When he felt his strength begin to drain, as rainwater from a gutter, he thought it was from all the exertion lifting and dumping the dead ones.
…
As Bishop Tirasewicz hurried his entourage to depart the city, their progress was slowed by the poor and sickly who surrounded them begging for food or coin. Orders to his armed outriders were clear. “Ignore them,” he commanded. His closed lips were as tight as his purse. “In a few days, they won’t have need for money or food.” The caravan stopped for no one and no reason.
Heading in the general direction of Silesia, the caravan could have the river carry it, but the river would not take them to the one place Bishop Tirasewicz wanted to be—within the protection of Duke Zygmunt Sokorski. Besides, it seemed to him that plague always followed the rivers, not the woods.
Carts, wagons, and horses served as conveyances for most of the party. The bishop and his priests rode horses while simple carriages—carts with solid wooden wheels—carried Irina, Velka, and the two nuns. Rosta and all the other servants walked. Six armed men, soldiers in truth, accompanied the party. Having a dog along proved a good addition—that little Yip was an attentive watchdog, the bishop noticed, but he proclaimed his hope that “the beast doesn’t eat too much.”
Because the roads were little more than rock-strewn tracks, it was not the least bit comfortable for any of the sojourners, but the choice had not been his to make. The duke’s party, the bishop believed, was just ahead of them. Even before leaving Poznan, the bishop had dispatched Father Shimanski to overtake Squire Brezchwa and suggest to the duke a particular stopping place on his way to Brandenburg. Given the signs of heavy, recent travel along their way, the bishop felt certain he would meet up with his forerunners in relatively short order.
Antony Tirasewicz had no intention of living simply or in rough circumstances. His destination was a safe, and definitely out-of-the-way, place in the large network of monasteries dotting the countryside. There he could command a comfortable space, would not be deprived of food and drink, and, most importantly, would be insulated from a world where plague was a mystery nearly as great as the Trinity.
Of his charges, the bishop cared little, with the possible exception of the interesting young woman who paid well for the privilege of being in his care. Allowing a sheepdog to come along should earn him an early release from purgatory. He snorted. Now, if Duke Zygmunt would deign to take him under his financial protection as well, the bishop thought that would be best of all. He smiled to himself, even as a light rain began to fall, and said to the spring air, “St. Stephen’s ought to provide an interesting encounter.”
…
After days of travel under circumstances most uncomfortable for those unused to the rocky paths through Poland’s western woods, palisades of the Monastery of St. Stephen the Martyr came into welcome view. Had the bishop not told them what to expect, Irina and her companions might have seen the large compound of civilized structures as some sort of apparition set to deceive the weary.
Bishop Tirasewicz had let it be known he’d visited the monastery many times and all would feel comfortable in the rustic, yet safe environs of the monks’ redoubt. Covering a large expanse of land, the monastery was constructed mostly of timber felled to make room for it, and with stone from the nearby quarry of a sinful, but repentant noble, he told them. It included a cavernous chapel, a dormitory for the seventy-some monks who resided there, and kitchens and barns.
From her position in the lead cart and nearest the bishop, Irina couldn’t help bu
t notice the relief on his face when evidence of the duke’s presence showed itself around the compound. She also found it interesting that St. Stephen’s could provide necessities for the large number of travelers.
The bishop explained, to no one in particular, “This will be a good place to pray for God’s mercy on all those left in Poznan.” There were grateful “Amens” from the assemblage, and immediately, they dismounted, desirous of food and drink.
As Irina and her companions stepped down from the cart, she came face-to-face with the most imposing man she had ever seen. Suddenly, quietly, there he was, waiting. Her eyes came just to the man’s chest and she had to bend her neck backwards to see the top of him. An older man—probably more than four decades, Irina guessed—and already graying—he was dressed in a deep amber robe trimmed with strips of fur the color of dark earth. His hood was a similar mass of heavy cloth and fur covering a head on which most of his brushed hair served to disguise the bottom of his face. As if he’d been allowed only so much foliage, almost nothing was left to warm the top of his head, and so the hood served a most useful purpose for him, given the distinctly chilly spring nights.
Irina was not surprised by the man’s garb so much as his size and presence. She stood, waiting, while the other travelers went off in search of comfort. The man seemed to have no other purpose than to greet her.
“Father Martinus Madrosh, My Lady,” he pronounced, following his words with a slight bow of the head.
A priest! Irina blushed at the sound of the word “Lady” but decided it was something she could get used to. Contrary to her earlier feelings, she took a liking to the man before her. “Irina Kwasniewska,” she said, hesitating as she extended her hand. She had no notion whether a lady would do so to a priest.
As she spoke her name, she felt her lips turn to ice as she spied a pair of faces not many feet behind the giant priest. Tomasz the Terrible, the yellow-haired oaf at his side like a lost dog, walked past them ever so casually, as if a monastery was exactly where one would expect to find two murderers. Why does God let these evil ones escape their just fate? Yip showed his teeth but remained resolutely at her side.
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