“You’re saying God judges us by what we do with our lives, not by what we are at our borning.”
“Well said, Irina.”
…
“Pan Tokasz?” Andrezski shouted out to the man leading his cow into the meadow.
“Who calls me?”
Jerzy tied much of his hope to the simple farmer who turned and walked toward him, a man wearing gray woolen leggings and a brown tunic stained with barn work. Like nearly all other Polish men, he was topped by a mass of brown hair unused to a brush and facial hair unused to a blade.
So excited Jerzy was about his idea, he didn’t take time to introduce himself but began talking about the farmer’s father. His listener took a step backward. And when he asked the farmer to tell all he could remember of his father’s work with the Italian craftsmen of so long ago, the man called Pawel Tokasz reacted in shock.
“Do you realize my father has been dead for some years? And why should I tell you, a stranger who comes without a name?”
“I am Jerzy Andrezski, and if you will help me, you may be glad you did.”
“Pan Andrezski? The man so many talk about since the plague?”
“You embarrass me, Pan Tokasz. At the moment, however, you are the most important man in the meadow.”
“You honor me much, sir. Let me pasture my cow and we can talk a bit.”
They found a large elm tree and sat under its new green leaves, taking in the cool shade. For some time, Tokasz talked and Andrezski listened as the man struggled to remember the many things his father had imparted to him. Some were secrets, Tokasz recalled his father saying. At one point, he leaned his head against the trunk of the huge tree and suddenly opened his eyes wide.
“What’s the matter, Pan Tokasz?”
“Come with me. I have something to show you.” After rummaging around a battered wooden chest in the back of his cluttered barn, he handed to his visitor a long cylinder of some kind wrapped in dusty, parched leather.
“Be careful unrolling the skin as it is very dry,” said Tokasz.
“What is this metal tube inside the leather?” queried Andrezski, not much interested in its covering.
“My father said it is what the men used to blow and spin the glass. I don’t know how it’s done, exactly.” He then reached back into the chest and brought out another package. Carefully unwrapping it, he held in his open hands a piece of glass slightly larger than the hands that held it. He passed it to his visitor.
Andrezski held it to the light. There were little pockets of air in the round pane of glass, but it was otherwise clear and caught every speck of light. Andrezski held the small pane in front of his face, looked through the glass at the face of the farmer, and laughed with childlike delight. Tokasz laughed too, as if they were boys with a plaything.
“This, Pan, is the most important piece.”
“The leather wrapping? Why?”
“See the etchings on the skin? My father said they represented letters and numbers, but I cannot read them. He said whoever could read it would know how to make glass.”
Chapter VIII
1378
In the gray dawn, Irina awoke to sheets of rain slapping Castle Krosno’s outer walls. The heavy cloth covering the opening, even when tied down, was effective in keeping out the weather only when there was little or no wind. What’s more, the leather thong to tie it was missing. Free to join the wind, the woolen cloth, damp and dank from the blowing rain, flapped and snapped like an unlatched door. The small fireplace, kept alight by Velka, did little to warm the apartment.
Irina stepped off the high bed onto the stone floor and made her way closer to the fire, wrapping herself in the large blue square of wool she had taken when she left the Kwasniewski farm. She lowered herself onto the floor next to Yip and rubbed his neck and back as the old dog brushed the hearth with his tail. As she hugged herself in the scant warmth of the fire, she wondered if the love of a good man would someday be hers again.
She began to cry softly. Within moments, her shoulders heaved in deep, heartful agony as she thought about Berek and the family she would never see again. Remembering her conversation with Madrosh the afternoon before, she grasped her belly as if by doing so, she could keep her baby always, never to be truly alone again. Being lonely and alone were far different words, each having its own kind of terror. Her sobs continued in waves, like the storm outside the walls.
Velka ran from the little anteroom where she had been mending a torn garment, and knelt by her side. “Lady Irina,” she said very softly, having come to address her by Irina’s self-given title, “what is troubling you?” Putting her arms around Irina’s shoulders, the two rocked back and forth, Velka quietly humming an old hymn. After several minutes, Velka said in her country Polish, “My Lady, look! The rain is stopping and the sun has come out for you. It will not be such a bad day, after all. You must welcome it with dry eyes.”
Velka’s caress carried with it a tenderness Irina had not felt for several weeks. She held her head to Velka’s breast and let her breathing keep time with the tune Velka hummed for them. Soon, she lifted her head and a ray of sun caught and glinted in her damp eyes before the window covering flapped shut once again. At the same moment, the image of evil entering the castle in the person of Franciszek made her both fearful and angry. Irina sat fully upright, and seeing Velka’s bright smile, resolved to meet the day and whatever it might bring.
By mid-morning, she had bathed, donned fresh clothing, and readied herself to spend another day with her mentor. She knew that listening to old Madrosh was the best thing she could do for herself. Not only did the bits of education he offered help her live the role she now played, she found the intellectual challenges as tasty as a warm apple tart in late summer.
On her own, she made her way up the uneven steps to the upper battlements, occasionally looking down to see the curious preparations underway below her. The air was heavy with the smells of humans and animals living and functioning in close quarters. She noticed that the higher she rose, the clearer, cleaner, and sweeter the air became. She instinctively took a deep breath, reminding herself not to lose her balance as she slowly conquered each step upward, Yip her only escort onto the heights.
With the sun full on the high stonework, she found the bench she and Madrosh had claimed for themselves all but dry, the steam rising as it began to absorb the warmth of the day. She sat for a time thinking about the morning, and what had transpired in the weeks before. It was hard to escape thoughts of her beloved Berek, but she noticed that when she became tearful, it was more about her loneliness. It was as if her inner self had finally accepted the fact of a void in her heart that would not likely be filled.
She was surprised when an image of Jan Brezchwa suddenly appeared in her mind’s eye. There he was. Standing, not speaking, just smiling at her. She felt embarrassed by her own smile and fought to compose herself as Madrosh, breathing heavily, crested the top step.
“My apologies, My Lady, I am behind my time this morning, and I see,” he said, noticing her demeanor, “you have been enjoying my absence.”
“Not at all, Father Madrosh. It was merely a moment of pleasant solitude.”
The two spent many minutes catching the other up on the latest bits of court drama, and more than once, laughter broke out in in the early summer air.
Madrosh saw fit to ask another kind of question. “And so, Lady Irina, what did you observe at last evening’s meal?
Surprised, Irina turned to face Madrosh directly and said, “I saw two noblemen enjoying each other’s company. They seemed to share a secret, Madrosh!”
“Just so, my dear.” Madrosh concluded the sentence, and the subject, with a twist of his lips that was more a grimace than a smile. Irina could not tell what he was thinking, but the old man seemed preoccupied with a special unpleasantness.
For the next ho
ur and more, the two discussed further the teachings of the ancients. “The writings and teachings of the Greeks evidently had a great influence on Augustine and Aquinas, and taken together, they have helped me further understand a progression of thought about the soul that goes back over fifteen centuries,” Madrosh said.
“So now we come to this man Aquinas?” I do not know how much of this I can take, but if I show no interest, what will I miss?
Madrosh cleared his throat. “Now, My Lady, we come to the mid-day meal, and if you choose, we will meet here again where the air itself helps to clarify thought!”
Thank God for food! “Ah, Madrosh, why is it that the very thought of food is so powerful a distraction for you?”
“Only food for thought, My Lady,” he said, smiling at his own attempt at humor, and led her down the steps.
…
“And what do our spies tell us, Captain Tomori?”
“Sir Bela, I am pleased to report very good news. Our observers report that many are working to clean and dress the large square in front of the castle—out of respect for our visit, I’m told. The townspeople do not seem to know the purpose of our coming, but they are happily making ready for us.”
“What about inside the castle itself? Are they preparing a proper welcome for the representatives of King Louis?”
“Yes, Sire,” he responded with a bright smile. His bushy, blonde beard shone in the sunlight. “All is as it should be. We understand that soldiers of all ranks are polishing and brightening their weapons and mail, and the local major domo, Sir Ortwinus, has ordered large quantities of hay for our horses. It bodes well for a pleasant conquest, does it not, Sire?”
“We shall see, Tomori. We shall see. Ready a messenger to carry news to his Majesty. He can leave as soon as we’ve raised our flag over Krosno. Make certain too that our two Poles look presentable. Oh, and Tomori, see that our own troops look their very best tomorrow. They will not have many easy victories on this expedition, and I want them to enjoy this one.”
Tomori chuckled with agreement and pride. “They will enjoy themselves, Sire, but I venture to say, they’d rather do some killing—they would have been just as happy if we had to fight our way in.”
For a few minutes, the two soldiers recalled for each other earlier expeditions in which each had served, their many conquests drenched in the blood of the hapless. They relished the beheadings, the quarterings, and the burnings.
“Not to worry, Tomori, we will see plenty of good killing!”
…
Bishop Tirasewicz sat at his desk, brooding. Who is Irina Kwasniewska, he continued to wonder, but thus far, his inquiries in wealthier circles had gone unanswered. Summoning his principal minion, he determined to satisfy his curiosity, one way or another.
“Father Shimanski, I want you to ask our cathedral staff of priests if anyone knows of a Kwasniewski family, possibly of minor nobility, living in Gniezno.” He saw the puzzled look on the priest’s face and made a shooing gesture to the man, much as he would brush away a gnat. “Don’t ask me about this, Father. Just make the inquiries and let me know what you find.”
“Yes, Bishop,” Shimanski added obediently, casting his eyes downward.
Tirasewicz knew Father Shimanski to be a very thorough man who would, in turn, pass along the instructions to his staff. In truth, he did not expect any of his own people to produce an answer. He had, after all, selected his men of the cloth because they and their families were local and known personally to the Tirasewicz family.
Just as his family had no relatives in any distant city, he doubted any of his staff would have such connections. He was well aware that except for people in his position, soldiers, or nobility, almost no one traveled beyond a small circle of land where they were born. Tapping one of the leather-bound ledgers with his bejeweled fingers, he slapped his hand down in frustration, and said to the empty room, “Something does not ring true about Lady Kwasniewska from Gniezno—and I will find out what it is!”
…
Pan Tokasz and Jerzy Andrezski sat for the longest time over a common meal of ale, cheese, bread and a bit of red kielbasa. The longer they talked, the more Pan Tokasz had to say. For one thing, Tokasz remembered an old man who had been a helper to his father and the Italians on the church project.
“But the priest said that all the men were dead!”
“Not all. Jan was one of the men from Poznan. He is old now,” he said, pausing to reflect. “He himself has always been a decent man, my father thought, but we will not trouble ourselves to meet his son, Tomasz.” Tokasz told what little he knew of him. “Tomasz the Terrible, they call him.”
“Of what concern is this man, then?”
“You are not from here, Pan Andrezski. Tomasz Wodowicz is, indeed, a terrible man. If Jan Wodowicz is able to assist us, it will be best to tell no one.”
…
“My Lady Irina,” Madrosh announced after their mid-day repast of roast rabbit, a few dried fruits, and various breads. “We should walk, should we not?” Not awaiting her response, he continued, “Let’s cross the moat bridge and navigate the square. In your gentle condition, fresh air and a bit of exercise will do you much good.”
“As you say, Madrosh. You are now a physician of the body as well as the soul!”
“Since you speak of the soul,” he said with a wink, “let us talk more about Thomas Aquinas. He, too, spent much time satisfying himself that it wasn’t just by faith alone that one can know God exists. Of course, he believed, fundamentally, that faith alone is sufficient, but for those”—and here Madrosh cleared his throat—“who want something more substantial before investing in faith, he offered five proofs of God’s existence. Three of them we’ve already discussed somewhat because they are based upon Aristotle’s thinking of over a thousand years before.”
“Oh, refresh me a bit, won’t you?”
“Aquinas focused on the notion of a first mover,” he began in answer. “By this, he did not mean the idea as action, but instead, as kinesis—Greek for ‘movement’—of potential to actual existence. If you have an idea, for example, it is not the idea to build a mill in St. Michael that makes it real. It is the action of the builders that makes it real. The act is totally separate from the idea, do you see?” He went on. “We cannot assume an infinite series of preceding movers without accounting for the existence of the First Mover. That must be God.”
“Preceding movers?”
“Yes, Irina. Your parents and theirs before them, and so on, all the way back to the first of our kind.”
“Our kind?”
“The first of us who thought about who they were—not plants or animals. The first who pointed to the sky and wondered, who asked questions and sought answers.”
Irina’s brow wrinkled. “And?”
“Another proof would seem obvious: if the very fact that an Original Being must exist leads to the conclusion that there is only one, this Being must be the one and only God.”
Irina nodded.
Madrosh inhaled deeply before resuming what philosophers believed about God’s existence. She and the old priest strolled across the cobbles and made a circuit of the broad square, busy with shops and the noise of sellers, much like the Fareway in Poznan. Despite the tempting goods offered, she kept her focus on the words flowing to her like sips of hot soup on a cold evening.
After a minute or two, he continued, “The last argument has to do with something I said earlier. Our world is not totally random. Just as the Old Testament says God created the world in a particular order, there must be such an order in what we see around us for it to make sense. The foundation of the castle walls is on the bottom, never on the top, you see?
Irina smiled. At the butcher’s stall, she stopped and asked for a bit of fat for Yip, who kept them quiet company throughout their saunter. His bushy white tail, topped with a black tuf
t of fur, wagged furiously as Irina bent with a treat for her ever-loyal friend.
“We’ll close this topic with one additional idea offered by Aquinas about God. You and I and all other things pass away. Trees rot and disappear, and over time, even stone crumbles. Rivers, too, change course. It is our nature to pass away, and thereby, we change. God’s nature does not change. It is always the same. That means that God’s nature is, simply, to be.”
Irina shook her head, as if dazed by a difficult notion.
“Because we’re walking on real ground and not high on the parapets, I can risk making you a bit dizzy with such thoughts,” he chuckled. “Here’s another: To Aquinas, it was inconceivable for God to have created the world and everything in it out of matter that already existed. If this matter already existed, he wondered, then where did it come from? What made more sense to Aquinas is that God created the first bit of unshaped or unmolded matter, and by sparking it into life—kinesis—brought forth what we see around us—the sky, the sun, water, earth, and so on, and, more recently, intelligent beings—us.”
“Intelligent? I’m not always so sure. Just how far have we really come, good Father?”
“A very good question, Irina.” Madrosh paused, acknowledging her insight. “Do you remember our discussion about free will? God created us and, as such, moved his thought into reality, prompting untold ‘motions’ ever since.”
Irina remained silent.
“Many in the church talk about free will,” Madrosh continued, “but they believe that every single thing that happens is controlled by God, yet we should pray for him to make something happen the way we would wish it, almost as if we’re praying for God to change his mind.”
“Are you saying, then, there is no need to pray?”
“On the contrary, Irina. If, indeed, God ‘let go,’ then he allows his Creation to grow and blossom like the flowers in the forest. In that case, there is all the more reason to ask him to intervene on our behalf. Sometimes he does. And sometimes he answers our prayers by doing nothing at all.”
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