Irina

by Philip Warren

  “Yes. Observe that the castle’s towers face the river, and Poland—a warning to our ancestors, no doubt. No such daunting obstacles face the Teutonic lands. It is, if I may say, a bit of German arrogance to state that no enemy could or would ever foray beyond Krosno Castle. “I am told it is a mere country town, unused to seeing large numbers of nobility pass through. Of soldiers and horses, they have seen many over the decades because even peasants know Krosno stands halfway between two important strongholds—both of which had been under Polish rule at one time.”

  “I shouldn’t laugh,” Irina said, “but aren’t the people confused when their borders change so often?”

  “I am sure they are, My Lady, but about the feelings of the people, monarchs care little. As to Krosno, it could have been a powerful town for a military garrison, but large numbers of armed men are not usually billeted here, and likewise, power has never made its home in Krosno. What troops may be there now will be more ceremonial than battle ready.”

  Squire Brezchwa approached, bowed, and let them know they would cross at last.

  Irina looked up at him, gave him her bravest smile, and said, “Without you, Jan Brezchwa, I would not be crossing at all! You will always have my deepest gratitude. If,” she added with mirth, “you can assure me we will be dry when we reach the other side.”

  The squire laughed out loud. “It was my pleasure, My Lady. And yes, I give you my word.”

  Irina couldn’t seem to help liking the sound of his name, and again, she found herself saying both names as one, “Jan Brezchwa.” She saw the squire as an attractive, likable young man, but that was as far as she allowed thoughts of him to wander. Irina could not forget Berek, and could not see herself replacing him in her heart and head with anyone at all, certainly not within one lunar cycle of his death.

  “My Lady,” Brezchwa addressed her with great deference, “when we reach Krosno, we will be there for a few days. You have only to call upon me, and I will see to it that whatever you ask will be taken care of immediately.”

  “Yes, Squire, that would be very much appreciated,” she answered, regaining a certain formality. She would not permit a familiarity she could not welcome in return.

  Irina gave further thanks during the crossing, but conversation with the squire was desultory, a relief to her guilty conscience, to be sure, but a puzzlement to him, she could see.

  Once across, the travelers landed on a large, flat space paved with cobbles, in the center of which was the town’s main well. Surrounding the square was a collection of already ancient dwellings and shops, behind which several dozen more structures of stone and wood tightly strung themselves along the lanes and alleys veining away and up the valley slope.

  On the right was the southern wall of the castle, one of its towers cornering the square. A moat of sorts had been dug on three sides so that river waters were allowed to completely surround the islanded fortress. It was an imposing, highly defensible citadel, as Madrosh had intimated.

  The duke’s entire party was escorted with deference and respect as they crossed the moat’s short wooden bridge and paraded through the main gate. The magistrate and commander of the castle, Sir Ortwinus Esel, spoke Polish as he welcomed them in the name of the Margrave of Glogau, and on behalf of the Margrave of Brandenburg. Sir Ortwinus scowled at the low rumble of muted laughter amongst the soldier-riders.

  “Why are they laughing?” Irina whispered to Squire Brezchwa.

  Brezchwa, in turn, suppressed a chuckle. “One of the soldiers told me that in German, Esel means donkey or jackass.”

  “An unfortunate surname, to be sure, and then, there’s the man’s unusual girth…” whispered Martinus Madrosh himself.

  “Father!” Irina covered her lips as she giggled into her sleeve.

  “It goes well with his puffed-up personality,” said Brezchwa, a broad smile framing his countenance.

  “Stop it now, you two,” Irina said in mock reproach, then bowed her head so that others would not see her cheeks blush.

  Sir Ortwinus cleared his throat and repeated words of further welcome, this time in German, insisting that the duke and his guests dismount and enter for some rest and food. The Margrave of Brandenburg would arrive in the morning or the very next day, Sir Esel assured his noble guests. With a look of poorly hidden disdain, he marched into the keep.

  …

  Tomasz and Franciszek spent a few hours searching for a place where they could ford the Oder well south of Krosno. Because they were on no schedule, they went about their day with ease, and in mid-morning, they retreated into the cool woods for a catch of small game. As they readied to roast slices of rabbit over a small fire, one looked at the other as they both realized the rustling of leaves and the odd crack of a branch in the woods directly behind them weren’t from the light breeze. “We are no longer alone, Franciszek.”

  “It’s just a boar,” Franciszek said, turning to stare at the new green of the forest. “If it comes after us, well,” he laughed, “that’ll be dinner.”

  “You’re right. His or ours?” They howled with laughter.

  Another twig cracked.

  They sprang simultaneously, Tomasz to grab the reins of their horses and Franciszek to reach for his bow. Tomasz put his free hand on his sword. They froze.

  Armed men flew out of the brush from all directions at once. At first Tomasz could not tell if they were highwaymen, but the markings on the light-gray tunics told him these were soldiers. What he saw was a white, doubled cross on a field of deep red, heraldry he had seen only once or twice before.

  Believing they were about to die, Franciszek could only mutter, “Oh, for a duck’s wing and some cheese.”

  “No food for us!” said Tomasz in a low mutter.

  The captors surrounded their prey, their lances pointing at Tomasz and Franciszek from all sides. The foreigners shouted words the new captives could not understand.

  Tomasz spoke his native Polish, but his listeners seemed to understand only a word or two. For some reason, one of the men facing him broke into a broad smile, then dismounted, disarmed their captives, and tied their hands before leading them away. All the while, Tomasz tried to recall where he had seen their tunics before.

  Tomasz scowled and swore repeatedly, and as they were jerked along, an image of old Teofil crossed his mind. But only for a moment.

  …

  In the late afternoon, after everyone in the duke’s party had taken rest in their assigned spaces for the visit, Irina and Madrosh found themselves together in Krosno Castle’s courtyard, surrounded by four stories of timber and masonry, bustling cooks, gardeners, and stable boys. Clearly, all were readying for an important visitor.

  “Are you feeling refreshed?” Madrosh wanted to know as they stepped away.

  “Oh, yes. Velka has taken care of my needs and our rooms are nicely appointed.”

  Yip patrolled alongside. They were safe. A long pause ensued while they enjoyed a walk without fear or rain.

  Madrosh broke the silence, “Do you remember seeing and hearing the chiming clock in the refectory of the convent house in Poznan?” asked Madrosh. He and Lady Irina strolled slowly around the esplanade, taking in the castle’s structure.

  Such an odd question! It startled her. She was glad of the walk after so many hours and days in a cart or on a horse—not to mention the time spent in the water. No midwife she, but Irina thought it good for her to walk whenever possible. Riding, her legs became numb, and her intuitive belief was that being out of a natural balance would not be good for the babe in her womb. As she turned her focus on the question, a chill descended upon them. She pulled her cloak more closely around her.

  “Clock?” she responded, dumbly. “I’ve only seen a very few, perhaps just two in all. The one just outside Poznan Castle and the one you mentioned. Why do you ask and why do you talk about so many things other than the
subject I want you to talk about?” she demanded playfully, her bright smile underlining her mood.

  “You have seen few because there are few. The first timepieces were made hundreds and hundreds of years ago, and they were powered by water. Our word clock comes from the Latin word clocca¸ for bell, because bells or chimes mark the passage of the hours. All of them are vastly complicated. Some even show the phases of the moon and rising and falling tides. While I was at the University in Krakow, they talked about a most famous clock constructed by Dondi in Padua just a few years earlier. It was said Dondi’s clock marked feast days of the church and even predicted the times when the moon would obscure the sun.”

  “That is all very interesting, Father Madrosh. But how does that explain the existence of God?”

  He ignored her interruption. “The two clocks to which you referred. Am I assuming correctly you were not able to see what made the timepieces run?”

  “You are correct.”

  “If you were able to examine such a device, you’d probably think it was like a very small mill grinding wheat, only much, much more complicated and intricate. And once you noticed all the gear wheels and springs and levers, would you not conclude that all those parts—like those of a simple grinding mill—could not have come together by chance?”

  “Yes. Someone would have had to carefully plan such a device, I would think.” After a moment, she went on. “In St. Michael, our mill had to be rebuilt after a fire a few years ago. The stonemasons and carpenters were very careful to place the mill so that the big wheel in the water could turn easiest and fastest for all the farmers in nearby villages.”

  “You mean it was designed to get the most out of his mill?”

  “Yes, naturally.”

  “But it wasn’t perfect, was it?”

  “No,” she laughed aloud. “After it was finished, they talked even more. They said the next one would be even better.”

  “Do you think our world as we know it with the stars in the heavens, the sun and moon, the waters flowing through our earth—do you think it all happened by chance? Is our world not a device created by a Master Craftsman much more brilliant than the great Dondi?”

  Irina nodded. “I do not mean to be disrespectful, but ours doesn’t seem like the perfect world He could create. Does that mean He will make it over again?” she quipped.

  It was Madrosh’s turn to laugh. “That’s an unusual question, and perhaps you are correct, and God will tire of his creation gone awry.” After a moment, he added, “but do you realize your question relies on the existence of a Creator?”

  “Perhaps,” she smiled, “but I am still not convinced.”

  “Just remember that as complicated as is your mill in St. Michael, and even more so the clocks in Poznan, our very existence, our very bodies, are infinitely more complex—and could not have happened by the same roll of the dice the soldiers use. More to the point, we could not exist without the plan of a Master Craftsman, the likes of whom we can only strive to know.”

  “So, you’re saying God made all of this happen because someone or something had to make it happen by design?”

  “What the philosophers might call a Prime Mover, a First Cause. You see, everything we’ve done in our lives was caused by something or someone before us, like unraveling a ball of woolen yarn that seems to go on forever.”

  “But even the ball of yarn has to have a beginning,” Irina asserted.

  “Precisely!”

  Irina listened quietly, expectantly.

  “And what’s so magically brilliant and overwhelming,” Madrosh continued, “is that we…”

  “We?” she challenged in return, interrupting him.

  “Yes, we…the continuing existence of the human race, of all that surrounds us, earth, sky, water,” Madrosh said, opening his arms in an encompassing gesture. “We are like your mill in St. Michael, but we are a mill that needs no stream or river to power the grinding wheel. Our universe is like the most complicated clock that never needs winding—because it is crafted by the greatest clockmaker of all.”

  …

  Dinner in the great hall had come and gone, and all the while, Irina and Madrosh talked as if no one else was there, paying little attention to the roast venison and the other delights around the table. It hadn’t been an intimate talk, to be sure, but it was intense nevertheless. They ceased only when men ran atop the ramparts lighting torches, then in the courtyard and at the gate. Someone said riders must have come to alert Sir Ortwinus of an impending arrival.

  By the time they bid each other a restful night, most of their fellow sojourners were well into their first sleep. As she readied herself for bed, Irina had begun to accept the notion of a single Being who founded the world, fashioning the earth and sky from nothing. As she lay resting in her chamber, the notion that stayed with her was the one about an unspringed eternal clock.

  I must admit that I have come to like—and trust—this man, this priest, though I am far from convinced of what he says. His avalanche of words about God may be hard to take, at times, but I asked the question, didn’t I?

  After a few hours, she was startled awake when a heavy sound poured through the nearby open slit in the wall that gave her light and air. It came from beyond the thick stone walls of the tower, from somewhere far below her. Finally, she realized it was the chain’s rumble when the portcullis was lifted to allow entrance from the moat bridge. Irina rose and peered out of the wall’s opening. “Ah, the visitor!”

  There followed a blast of trumpets announcing the arrival of the Margrave of Brandenburg, Wenceslas the King, and his entourage of thirty or so knights on horseback, their armor glinting in the torchlight, the Teutonic pennants flying their royal colors in the cool May breezes.

  Looking down on the scene from her height in the tower, she concentrated her full attention on the margrave himself, a king and prince-elector of the Holy Roman Empire, Madrosh had said; she wanted to see what such a man might look like. She laughed at her silliness when she realized all she’d see from her post was the top of his head! And that in the half dark of shifting images in the torchlight!

  The clatter of hooves on the cobbles was deafening. When it stopped, she could hear the high voice of Sir Ortwinus Esel. She smiled delightedly as she pictured him making his welcome speech before the travelers dismounted and marched into the castle’s great hall—for refreshment, she guessed.

  Based upon what Madrosh had said, the Margrave Wenceslas and Duke Zygmunt would spend time together discussing their business, and she could not imagine their company would rest in Krosno for more than a day or two. In truth, Irina had no idea what to expect.

  …

  Life was peaceful and plentiful for Bishop Tirasewicz at St. Stephen’s. He wanted for nothing. To be so far into the Polish woods was a bit disconcerting, to be sure, but the distance between him and Poznan’s plague was comforting. Though the kitchen delights were not as sophisticated and grand as at Poznan, he was well-fed with rustic foods and had a soft bed.

  The monastery’s abbot, Father Kaminski, kept to his monks, and except for morning Mass and meals, they paid him little attention. It wasn’t a matter of disrespect, he knew. It was simply that they were two different kinds of men with very different callings in life, despite their religious vows. Kaminski can keep to his prayers, and I will keep to myself.

  In the back of his mind, the bishop felt a nagging satisfaction for having rid himself of Tomasz Wodowicz. Terrible, indeed! That it was Wodowicz alone who saw and spoke to him on the night of fire and death had been a concern. That the man would soon be dead was most comforting.

  Because the monastery was within his See, Bishop Tirasewicz knew everything about St. Stephen’s and had ratified Kaminski’s election as its rector. He considered the abbot a quiet, contemplative man, ideal to his position as leader of quiet, contemplative men. They worked to sustai
n themselves, body and spirit, and other than contact with an occasional wayfarer or a villager or farmer nearby, they were content serving God in the manner they’d chosen.

  Antony Tirasewicz, on the other hand, had no difficulty seeing himself much like the secular prince he served. Like so many others in his position, he was sponsored by a noble, and had never had any but the most rudimentary priestly training. As bishop, he was a religious administrator with little interest in the mysteries of the church except as to how they might serve his purposes. Court politics suited him vastly more than Catholic doctrine.

  In the days of solitude after the duke’s party left for Paris, the bishop found ample time to brood. Why was he shown no respect by Duke Zygmunt? Beyond cursory courtesy, the duke had no interest in having him along to see the emperor in Paris. It would have been an easy matter to include the Bishop of Poznan, would it not? Yet the duke chose to take along a pregnant girl of unknown origin! This slight would neither be forgiven nor forgotten.

  About a fortnight after the duke’s departure, the deep forest repose was disturbed by a local farmer, running out of the woods and calling to the abbot near to where the bishop was taking his morning constitutional.

  “Father Kaminski,” called Lech Stephanek—so surnamed because he had been abandoned at the monastery when he was an infant—pausing to catch his breath. “My son and I found the bodies of two men in the woods. They’d been dead for some days, and with the smell of blood in the air, the boars and other animals have had their fill.”

  The bishop stepped closer so as not to miss a word.

  “I see,” responded the abbot. “How far away is this?”

  “A good day’s walk. Less on horseback. There had been horses there, as there are still footprints. We covered what was left of the bodies,” he said, blessing himself, “with a layering of dirt until we could speak with you. Father, there was one really odd thing.”

  “And what was that, Pan Stephanek?”

  “The bodies had no clothes on them but there were clothes nearby—and the clothes had no blood on them.”