Irina

by Philip Warren

  “Pleased,” the priest responded, giving her hand a gentle kiss. “Is anything amiss, My Lady? You—and your dog—seem suddenly ill at ease.”

  “No, it’s nothing,” she said, forcing a bare smile. “It’s the long travel, and Yip is careful of strangers.”

  Madrosh nodded. “Then I must not keep you long, My Lady. Most call me Madrosh, by the way. You may do the same.”

  “Then, Madrosh, who are you, exactly?” She forced a composure she did not feel.

  “I am counselor to Duke Zygmunt Sokorski, representing His Excellency, the Bishop. No doubt, the duke will have me look after you on our journey together. It will be a long one.”

  “You have the advantage, Madrosh. I am here on the advice of Mother Superior. I know not where we go or why we go there. Yet you knew I was coming? Why would someone so important as yourself be assigned the bother of a young woman, her servant, and two novices?” Irina asked her questions pleasantly but felt answers were in order. It seemed the role of a lady came easily.

  Madrosh tipped his head forward slightly, his lips forming a smile of acquiescence and acknowledgement. “Ah, one who asks direct questions. You see, My Lady, I knew you were coming before you left the convent. It is my responsibility to be aware of the unusual before such happenings come to the attention of the duke. Ah,” he paused, “you mention a servant. Are there not two?”

  “Rosta has been assigned to me, yes, but he serves the nuns as well.”

  They walked together across the forecourt, past the barn, and into the refectory, the monks’ dining hall. Yip followed. There they moved toward a large fire in the middle of the room, the smoke of which wafted upward toward an oculus in the ceiling. They sat and warmed themselves, Yip staying close to his mistress.

  “A woman of substance and her servant unexpectedly appearing at the church in prayer was sufficiently unusual for me to be informed. Though I know Mother Superior well, I remain uncertain as to exactly why she chose to send you along.”

  At this, it was Irina’s turn to bow her head, in humility, but not in shame. Looking directly into the soft, gentle brown eyes of the elder giant, she confessed, “I am with child, Madrosh. My husband was killed by highwaymen on the way from Gniezno. It’s that simple.”

  “I see then. Mother Superior wanted to protect the child—and you. She spoke well of you, and did you and your servant a great kindness. In this particular detail, you had the advantage of me, My Lady Irina. So now I understand.”

  “Understand?”

  “Duke Zygmunt will not remain long at St. Stephen’s. He will travel west for many weeks and for many hundreds of miles. You may stay here with the bishop and return, eventually, to Poznan. Or you may join us—we journey far westward to the city of Paris in the Kingdom of France.”

  “F-France,” she stammered. “Why would I go to France?” In the Joselewicz house, she’d heard talk of great countries to the west, and France was one of them. Its name was all she knew, but she did not feel she should reveal her ignorance to this man just yet. “This is too much for me to comprehend at this moment.” This was, indeed, the only true answer she could provide.

  “Mother Superior said you were a worthy person, and now I see why she was so earnest in her request that we welcome you. It is clear to me that you, more than any other traveler, have much to consider.” He smiled and left her with that thought.

  Irina remained still, thoughtful. She was glad to escape the plague, to be sure, but all the way to France? In her heart of hearts, she reminded herself, she wanted nothing to do with Poznan—she did not want to return to the place where her beloved Berek had been murdered. But to travel with the duke and the very people who killed the father of her child? She had not imagined such a choice would be possible, but as she pondered further, a most satisfying possibility began to present itself. She smiled. A stay at St. Stephen’s could be most satisfying, indeed.

  …

  At the evening repast the monks had prepared for their illustrious guests, Irina was presented to Duke Zygmunt by the bishop, and while their brief conversation was formal and appropriate, it seemed to Irina the duke took a liking to her. In truth, she found herself charmed by him, difficult and confusing it was to feel a sense of warmth toward a master of murderers. Irina wondered if he knew what his men had done.

  They were seated on the rough wooden benches usually occupied by the permanent residents of St. Stephen’s, and while the surroundings were rustic, the food was excellent—at least as good as that served in the Joselewicz household. Roasted rabbit, venison, and pig, each in its own sauce made with flour, onions, and the juices of the animal. There were lettuce greens, oat and wheat breads, currant jams, and pastries of various kinds. Irina feasted, smiling to herself when she thought of her baby also enjoying such good food.

  Dining quietly and making little conversation with those around her, Irina clenched her teeth to keep from saying the wrong thing to someone at whose mercy she now existed. At their trestle table were the duke; his bishop; the monastery’s abbot, Father Kaminski; Madrosh; some of the elder monks; and the two novices. Others of lesser rank were served at other tables farther from the fireplace.

  She watched most closely the two men haunting her dreams, Tomasz the Terrible and Big Franciszek. Their actual, physical presence in the closed space of the monks’ refectory seemed somehow more threatening than when she spied them in the Joselewicz courtyard. Together, as if joined by evil, the two men were drinking with the others and behaving in the boorish, bullying manner she would have expected. Seeing them freshened the disgust she felt and furthered her resolve.

  As the evening wore on, when the diners’ wits were sufficiently dulled by ale and wine, Irina signaled to Velka for the two of them, quietly, to step outside the hall. From one of the deep, pocketed folds of her heavy gown, Irina drew several pieces of silver gathered from the various hiding places of the Joselewicz household. Along with the one or two coins, the small cache contained symbols of the Jewish religion.

  Giving these to Velka, she whispered her instructions.

  …

  Sister Rose was thoroughly perplexed by the behavior of the beautiful child entrusted to her care. Little Zuzanna, the name she had finally called herself, stayed quietly in the convent kitchen, refusing to play with the few other healthy children. Everything about her was unusual for someone so young.

  The elderly nun loved the way she cocked her head with a smile when called to a task. “Zuzanna! Help me mix the flour and water. We must make meat and vegetable pies for those able to eat.” Zuzzie made her way to a table top the size of a small room without a sound of protest, and did exactly as told. Sister Rose also marveled how the two cooks, opposites in age and wear, worked together for hours as the convent around them became crowded with living disease, first in the courtyard, and eventually, on the stone floors of the church itself. In the background, new residents churned with cries of the living and whimpers of the dying.

  Zuzanna was very young but knew enough to keep away from the afflicted ones now surrounding them. Going near them meant death, Sister Rose had warned her.

  “Zuzanna, my child. You must talk to me,” Sister Rose said with a great gentleness. “Your mother and father will come for you one day. But for now, they would want you to be safe with us and learn about the God who made you.”

  “Is God with us here?” she asked, looking up, wide-eyed in innocence, surprising the older woman as her small hands floured the table for baking.

  …

  Mother Superior knelt at prayer in the convent’s small chapel. Hers were prayers of hope, stunned as she was by the human devastation she had seen around the city. Mentally, emotionally, she had always been prepared for plague, one or the other, never both. For the first time in her life, two forms of the dreaded plague had been brought within the walls of the church and its convent. “If ever there was a time
to show an abundance of mercy, now would be such a time, dear Lord,” she whispered into the still air.

  She could deal with those whose sores and pustules around the neck would blacken and seem to strangle the life out of their victims for days—some living as long as a week. They were easy to identify.

  The second form was another matter. How we ready ourselves to care for people who would die in a day? Most did not know their end was near—they could not say a goodbye, utter a last confession, or live to another sunrise. It was a cruel but quick way to end their misery. She could only do her best, or, she vowed, die trying.

  …

  The next day, after morning prayers in the chapel, the duke and his bishop met privately, with their mutually trusted counselor-priest in attendance.

  “At Eastertime, the King of France, Charles V, issued an invitation to men of nobility all over the lands between us to come to Paris and confer on matters of interest to us all,” the duke informed his listeners.

  The bishop’s face showed his surprise. “At Eastertime? This invitation to Paris, my lord—why was it not made known to me earlier?”

  The duke thought the man’s petulance unflattering. In any event, he was not to be verbally shoved here and there by a rude cleric. Zygmunt chose his words carefully. “Because,” he responded with all the patience he could muster, “the invitation arrived in Poznan the same day as the plague, Bishop. I thought my message had conveyed that to you quite clearly. As to the royal invitation, it did not concern you. It concerned me. I wished for you to accompany me, but it appears you are not so disposed.” His tone settled any further discussion of territorial interest.

  The bishop bowed his head, slightly, in an unusual display of humility. “As you say, My Lord.”

  The duke knew the bishop’s mind. Though not a true churchman by any stretch of the imagination, Tirasewicz spun Rome’s line that the church should rule the nobility. The earth, however, is Caesar’s realm, not God’s! “Nonetheless, Your Grace, you and the parties in your company may join me if you wish, and if you can, ah, support the long journey.” Duke Sokorski spoke the words he felt he must, but in truth, he had no desire to inflict this priest of gold on a kingdom where men of God might predominate.

  “What about Madrosh?” The subject of the question stood to the side, seemingly uninterested in the topic of conversation.

  “It would be my wish, if you agree, my dear Bishop, that Madrosh accompany me, representing you if you do not come, but in any case, serving as my trusted counselor on a journey perilous in both the forest and the castle.” The duke’s square jaw was set.

  Bishop Tirasewicz’s nod betrayed full understanding—it was not a wish at all. “As you desire. Madrosh shall be your guest, then,” the bishop said, sealing the terms of the arrangement, financial and otherwise. “When do you proceed?”

  “In four days’ time, by which date the monks will supply us with sufficient provisions to help us begin the journey. It appears the plague has thus far not followed us. As to the others with you?”

  For the next few minutes, they discussed the priests, nuns, and the young woman travelling alone. Zygmunt settled the matter in plain fashion, the softness of his sandy hair belying his resolve in this and most other matters. “Her family I do not know, but I will look upon the Lady Kwasniewska as I would my own daughter. Returning to Poznan or Gniezno would not be wise for her. I trust you would not object to letting the nuns grace our company and tend to our religious needs, as well as those of the woman with child.”

  The bishop assented with a dip of his pointed jaw, his lips shut tight. In a moment, he broke his silence. “You are most gracious, My Lord, to host these orphans, as it were.” He paused. “Unless you insist, my lord, I will remain behind so that I may tend my flock in Poznan.”

  Duke Zygmunt smiled, unsurprised by the bishop’s words and meaning. He knew full well the bishop was happy to be relieved of his human burden and neither had he any intention of leaving the simple comforts of St. Stephen the Martyr only to martyr himself for the plague nesting in Poznan. “Of course, Bishop. A shepherd must be with his flock.” He turned to Madrosh and directed him to inform the others of his plan for them.

  “Consider it done, Sire,” replied Madrosh with a deep bow.

  Then the duke turned back to Bishop Tirasewicz, who was rising to leave. “Just a moment more, Bishop.”

  “Sire?”

  “While you are tending to your flock, see also to your shepherds.”

  “I fail to see your meaning, Sire.”

  “My meaning, Bishop, refers to those such as Ambrozy Rudzenski,” he said, deliberately not referring to the priest by his title.

  “What about him, Sire?”

  The duke stood. “You know what I am talking about, Bishop,” he said with a bit of a sneer. “He was one of your shepherds and did with boys, as they say!”

  Tirasewicz blanched.

  “Yes, Bishop. What’s more, you knew about Rudzenski. You moved him from parish to parish hoping no one would complain about a priest.”

  “T-that is w-why, Sire, I moved him to the c-convent church.” His stammer was beyond control. “T-there he would have little contact with young boys.”

  “There are altar boys in every church, are there not?”

  “Y-yes, Sire. But the man is m-missing.”

  “He is not missing. He is dead.”

  The bishop sat back down.

  “He made the mistake of taking a walk in the country, near to the farmhouse where one of his favorites lived.” The duke paused to let his listener take in his words. “Unfortunately for him, he met the boy’s father clearing manure from the barn.”

  “Y-yes?”

  “And apparently, he walked into the farmer’s pitchfork.”

  “What a terrible accident!”

  “Not an accident, to be sure, Bishop.”

  “Murder a priest?! Then the man must hang!”

  “Not at all! No nobleman would hang the father of this altar boy. It is enough the people here on earth know Rudzenski went to hell, Bishop.”

  “I see.” The bishop kept his head down, unused to having other than the upper hand.

  The duke leaned across the trestle table toward his bishop, their eyes not far apart. “I charge you to rid your shepherds of any more like Rudzenski, as he is not alone.”

  “To my k-knowledge, Sire, there are very few like him.”

  “In my lands, Bishop, there will be none.” He paused. “Or they, too, will walk into pitchforks.”

  “I u-understand, Sire.”

  As the bishop departed, the duke looked up from his chair at Madrosh, who remained speechless but wide-eyed. “Were my words sufficiently clear, counselor?”

  “Clear, Sire. Now I have my answer about the man and find a certain justice in his fate. And you, Sire, have done the right thing.”

  Sokorski stared at his priest. “Justice has no part in my motive, Madrosh. It is about power. If the people won’t support the church, they won’t support me, and I don’t want them to have a reason to do either.”

  …

  Irina spent the following days resting, watching, and thinking. As often as possible, she made it her business to encounter the duke, ingratiate herself, and gain his confidence. Hypocrisy was her friend in this endeavor. Finding herself in a world of men and power, she made up her mind to learn their rules, play by them, and, perhaps, even win by them. Power had purpose, and she had no intention of being crushed by it.

  On the day before their departure, just as an afternoon rainstorm darkened the sky, she and Duke Sokorski had another encounter in the long, covered cloister leading from the refectory to the church.

  “Walk with me, child,” he said, his gait slowed by age and afflictions of battle. Together, they made their way, rain rattling the roof above them. As always, they were
followed at a distance by Velka, one of the duke’s serving men, and Yip.

  “Is there something troubling you, My Lord?” she asked when they found a side chapel nook in which to contemplate. Each lowered themselves to a kneeler and composed their hands in prayer, but it was not words of praise to God that the duke uttered.

  “My dear Irina, word has come to me via a certain channel that men in my service behaved disreputably toward the Jews.” When he said this, his slate-gray eyes squinting under his bushy brows, his gaze aimed directly into the blue eyes of the young woman in front of him.

  Disreputable behavior?! She wanted to scream but could not. Men in your service murdered the father of my child! She wanted to grab him by his chest plate and shake decency into him, but she could not. Instead, she returned his stare. “What have you heard, My Lord?” she asked, swallowing the hard knot of fear and victory in her throat, and feigning ignorance.

  The duke eyed her with patience. “Your servant,” he began carefully, “has let it be known that Tomasz took items of great value from the Jews after he burned them.”

  His words about burning Jews are so calm, so casual as if he was talking about buying a pastry at a market stall. Irina noted the order of things mentioned being the probable order of value in the heart of the speaker. “Yes,” she countered. “Velka and I were making our way through the city when we were shocked to see your man, Tomasz, leading others in beating and looting. Is that what you’re asking about?” Irina whispered hoarsely, knowing full well his intended interest lay elsewhere.

  “Yes,” the duke responded, letting his eyes close for a moment, displaying his patience and condescension all at once. “What they did was, shall we say, outside their responsibilities. I have levied a full tax on such behaviors, which means that Tomasz and his men were required to turn over to me everything taken from the Jews as a penalty for their acts.”