Stories of his gory death were passed from mouth to ear in hundreds of ways over several days. It gave them a sense of awe and even fear, believing that God could strike a man down in an instant. So seldom did the God in heaven choose to intervene on behalf of the righteous, the religious men and women of the city publicly expressed appropriate grief at the bishop’s demise, but privately thanked the Father of all for having ended the Tirasewicz reign.
Men and women of the cloth waited for a new bishop to be appointed while they continued the business of saving souls in the ways Christ himself had intended. Their attention was further diverted by rumors of two popes, and by Duke Zygmunt’s impending return home from Paris. The people of Poznan, from serf to squire, monk to merchant, were exalted by the news of a return to normal, of life before the plague.
…
Tomasz Wodowicz remained around Poznan for a few weeks, going from one alehouse to another, from one brothel to another, pursuits funded by none other than the church—in a manner of speaking. Had he been asked, he would not have recalled much of what he had done during that time, but he remembered one thing.
While it appeared that all of Poznan had run to gape at their bishop’s headless corpse sprawled in the street, Tomasz turned his horse back toward the bishop’s palace, where some recompense for his labors might be found.
Once inside, he knew where to go. Whatever the bishop might have had, he kept it near, within his grasp. To the dead man’s study he went, but this time, to the side of the bishop’s desk where he had never been.
Smirking with irony, he quickly found his quarry. Noticing that dust had not been disturbed on and around the bishop’s illuminated parchment copy of the Bible—because the man would never bother himself to seek its knowledge—Tomasz decided to lift the heavy tome and shoved it to the floor so he could inspect the desk’s wooden surface where the book had been. Not until he lit a candle and brought it close did he spy the carefully carved square of wood laid into the polished surface.
Slowly, he ran his fingers over the surface, pressing here and there. Finally, he found the right spot and the entire lid lifted. Inside the space, about the size of a man’s two hands, there were a pair of satisfyingly hefty leather pouches, sewn tightly and thonged together at one end. Both gave him the warming jingle of coins—pure gold coins. Quickly, he put them under his tunic and determined to search the rest of the room, but then he heard voices from the palace’s grand entryway.
Smiling, he whispered to himself, “Why be greedy?” Silently climbing through the window space, he ran to his horse, mounted, and guided the animal to an out-of-the-way alehouse he knew. Swaggering in, he thundered to the innkeeper, “I’m thirsty!”
Chapter XIV
1378
“Good afternoon, Squire and Lady Brezchwa,” Madrosh teased his audience when he joined them in their apartment in the Palais de la Cité. High enough in the castle to have a view of the city, but with no buffer to winter’s blows, all were more heavily clothed as the days hung dark and gloomy, and the bare trees readied themselves for a burden of snow. It was the week after little Stashu’s baptism.
“As always, Father Madrosh, we welcome your visits. You have news for us?”
“You have been aware, no doubt, that all the while we have been away, messengers have gone back and forth between here and Tangermunde, relaying news from Poznan and other places as well.”
“Yes?” both of his listeners asked—like anxious children. Jan and Irina exchanged glances.
“News from other parts of the Empire I have not come to talk about. From Poznan, however, I do have something to report. You have already heard of Bishop Tirasewicz’s most unusual departure from this life. While we must pray for his soul, I must say”—he spoke carefully— “his absence will do much to lift the religious and moral fervor of the Polish people in Poznan. His demise, I hasten to add, has had a chastening effect on Duke Zygmunt, it appears. Perhaps I judge unwisely, but the man has been especially devout of late, and I believe his awakening, shall we say, may be genuine.
Jan began to speak, but Madrosh kept on.
“I can assure you there has been a distinct change in his personality and outlook, but I claim no role in this change. Much to the contrary,” he said, in a rare exposure of his inner feelings, “I myself have felt a total failure to the men I have counseled. The choices and the behaviors of the bishop and the duke have often saddened me, and as to the bishop, my chance to be of some good is gone forever. This change in the duke, however, renews my hope.”
“I remain a cynic, Father,” Irina said quickly. “I may never know to what degree Tomasz was carrying out the duke’s wishes that night in Poznan.” She paused, apparently taking care in what she said in front of Jan, and swallowed hard. “You remind me often that I am not to judge. I am, however, human, and actions will say much more than prayers.”
“Please, Irina,” Jan said, “the duke has been so good to me, and has done so many wonderful things—for you as well, to be sure.”
“Yes, dear Jan,” Irina said, her hand resting on his forearm, “you have seen one side of him, and I, another. It is that other side that will always trouble me.”
At that moment, Irina saw that the old man’s eyes had glistened over. “I am sorry, Father. Perhaps I am too harsh.” She continued, ever so tenderly, “but after all these months of comfort to me, I cannot now believe it is I who seek to ease your pain. Why do you weep so?”
“Because I have failed.”
“But,” Irina protested, “you have saved so many souls. In very real ways, you have saved me and my child.” Irina stopped herself for a moment.
The old priest smiled in gratitude, then seemed embarrassed to have shown them so much of himself. “Now it is I who must ask a question. Jan, have you spoken to Duke Zygmunt about your desire to stay here in Paris with Irina and Stashu?”
“I have not, Father. I hadn’t thought there was a need to be hasty.”
“This is now the time, Jan. And there is reason not to delay.”
It was not just his words but the tone of his voice that caused Irina to back away in concern. She waited, expectantly.
Madrosh proceeded. “The duke will leave for Poznan immediately after the Feast of the Epiphany. And I must go with him.”
“No, Madrosh!” Jan said.
“Ten times no!” said Irina.
“You two now have each other, and you have little Stashu. Your need for me,” he said, looking directly at Irina, “has ended. I must go where there is a flock to be tended—in Poland. You see, Jan,” he continued, now looking at the young father and bridegroom, “there is no day to waste.” He saw the concern on the faces of the couple. “I have reason to believe,” he said, gesturing with his hands to calm them, “that approached properly, Duke Zygmunt will release you from your obligations. It will, however, be with reluctance, Jan, as you have been very much a son to him.”
Irina and Jan held each other’s hand, relieved to have some clarity about their future. They intended to remain. In the weeks they’d been in Paris, they’d found the city much to their liking, and Irina, in particular, saw no reason to leave. For her and Stashu, in so many ways, Poznan meant nothing but danger. Jan could have insisted she accompany him back to Poland, but given a choice, she knew he would not do so. Except for the duke’s paternal feelings, there was little in Poznan for either of them.
Silence took over the room. Irina blinked, as if to will away the news not to her liking. Then, as so often occurred, her voice filled the air. “Why, Father Madrosh, here you are on Dzien Swietego Mikolaja—St. Nicholas Day—and you have had not one iced cookie Velka baked knowing you would come!”
Spirits returned, Madrosh accepted one of the piernicki with childlike glee. “Yes, My Lady, you can tell dear Velka I have now enjoyed her baked treats well—too well, I might add—but for the final time. Even
the best things in life have an end, do they not?”
“You mourn too much, Madrosh, and there is so much we have not discussed,” she insisted, as if their conversations trumped all else. “There is so much you have not answered, and I will not let you get away without good answers,” she teased.
Madrosh stood, his eyes dry. He put his hand on her shoulder. “We have some weeks left, Irina. There is much we can talk about in that time. There is much, also, that you already understand. In you, I perceive one who has the ability to discern many answers even when there is no one to give them.”
Not one to let time slip by, Irina said, “Tomorrow then?”
Madrosh nodded. “As for you, young Squire,” the satisfied priest continued jovially, his goals apparently accomplished, “you must see Duke Zygmunt very soon!”
…
Jerzy Andrezski, the former caravan merchant and scoffer of all things religious, converted himself to a prosperous city tradesman with a newfound respect for the mysterious ways of the Almighty. Though he was quickly becoming wealthy, he had not built himself a town palace, and neither had he become a devoted churchgoer, though he was becoming richer in faith by the day.
He continued to believe—and he would not be convinced otherwise—that nothing short of a miracle kept him from a death by plague. That a small child would pay attention to him, quenching his thirst when he cried out, was part of that miracle. His inspiration for the making of glass came to him in a church. His discovery of God’s man in the woods, Brother Heidolphus, a master of the art with a willingness to work its craft, all struck him as works of the divine.
Yes, of course, he told himself many times over, all were pieces of strange luck, but he knew much more than luck was at work, and he never forgot the old man’s gift of knowledge along with his parting words. “It is now for you, Jerzy, to give Poles a view of life they’ve never had.”
Within weeks of the first clear glass window fittings in Poznan, and the sampling of stained windows in chapels and churches, people came from the north, south, and east to marvel at his inventiveness with the new luxury—including new hinged windows. More importantly, they came to place orders. It occurred to Jerzy that interest in his glassware was in some manner a way for people to let their memories of the plague, the bishop, and all the other ills of their time fade away into a view of their world the glorious windowpanes revealed.
In his bounty, Jerzy never forgot his promise to Sister Luke, and as a consequence of his generosity, the nuns were able to increase fourfold their services to Poznan’s poor and outcast. No one was ever turned away from their doors. The more the sisters did in service to the least of the people, the deeper in devotion to their cause Jerzy became.
The Church of the Heart of Jesus itself never looked as wondrous and beautiful as after his gift of biblical stories in stained glass for every opening in the church. The colors playing on the walls and the altar on a sunny Sunday morning were truly sublime. Soon pilgrims for miles around came to bask in the glories of God’s work—and Jerzy’s as well.
As for the monks at St. Stephen’s, they, too, prospered with success from their glassmaking skills. Even though many local men appeared to work in the business, Father Kaminski had to restrict his own men’s labors in the endeavor as it consumed so much of their energies, leaving little for their true service to God.
“Father Kaminski,” Jerzy said in his hearty voice, after a good meal with the brothers, “I am so glad that you have found ways to keep up with the making of glass rounds. I cannot tell you how well it has been going. My greatest fear, however, is that St. Stephen’s will not be able to provide all that we can sell!”
…
It was a sunny day in Paris, near the end of Advent. A light snow had fallen the night before, but most people out and about ignored the chilled air, as they seemed to enjoy the Christmas season. In the world of Paris and France, it would be a season of peace. Despite the papal imbroglio, the visits of the emperor and much of European royalty had been a huge success. Their stay of many weeks had been expensive, no doubt, but so much gold and silver moving from one pouch to another helped to employ and feed the populace. The rumbles of disquiet seemed to have evaporated.
In their palace apartment, life was just as peaceful for Jan and Irina. Their rooms were comfortable and noisy, the new infant’s needs loudly and often expressed. Irina and her coterie of servants attended to little Stashu throughout the day. Her Jan occupied his time doing the bidding of his duke, and though his master had released him from fealty, Jan assisted Madrosh in preparing for their return to Poland. Grain goods would not be plentiful in the countrysides of France and Germany during the months of January and February, they knew, and so the gathering, sacking, crating, and carting all manner of foodstuffs occupied many waking hours.
Irina treasured her times with Madrosh. Her mood would lighten the moment Velka opened the large wooden door at the old man’s arrival. That he would be leaving her life—undoubtedly forever—was a prospect she worked to put out of her mind, but could not.
“I am so glad we have this opportunity to visit,” he said. “With all the Christmas duties and activities, I feared we would not have time for other than public pleasantries. The duke is insistent we be prepared for our departure after Three Kings.”
Irina smiled, immediately cheerful in the presence of her closest friend, “Well, dear departing one,” she responded teasingly, “I am likewise glad you have found time for me.” She laughed, seeing the effect of her words on his expression.
“Yes, My Lady,” he said sheepishly. Madrosh continued, his expression turning somber. “Unfortunately, I must begin our talk with the sad news that Emperor Charles has died. From what the messengers tell us, His Majesty spared nothing to reach Prague and settle some important business with his three sons. Within days, he simply died in his sleep.” He paused. “I mention this because I know his gesture to little Stashu meant a great deal to you and Jan.”
Irina blessed herself and bowed her head, whispering a prayer for the emperor’s eternal rest. She remained silent for some moments. Then she blinked her eyes, as if the simple physical motion would clear her mind.
“May we finish a discussion point of some weeks ago?” she asked without a trace of emotion left from the earlier topic. “You remember, Father. It was the time you became so alarmed when I asked you about the Jews in France?”
“Yes, I recall it well. I hushed you because unlike Poland, the Jews have had a much harder time here. It is not a subject for discussion in public, to be sure.”
“When you say ‘unlike Poland,’ you cannot be referring to what happened to Berek and his family!” Hearing her own impulsive words, and the tone of them, she was grateful only she and Madrosh were in the room.
He did not answer her directly. “In the meantime, I have discreetly asked a few questions. To a sufficient degree, I can assure you, My Lady, the Jews in Poland have had much longer lives and deaths that have been more natural than brutal.”
“Yes?” she said, quietly and respectfully.
“I remember you mentioning,” Madrosh began, “that on the night Berek and his family were slain, you thought a priest might save them if they gave up their faith.”
“Yes, everyone thought that.”
“There’s a reason. It has happened many times in the past. Here in France, for example, it was in the city of Limoges, I believe, that all the Jews were rounded up and given exactly that choice. At the end of a month of intense discussion and debate, only a very few wished to convert to Christianity. Of all the rest, those who did not flee to other cities, killed themselves.” Shocked, she clasped her hand to her heart. “Was there no other way?”
“Robert the Pious conspired with his nobles to destroy all the Jews who would not become baptized. A rich Jew from Rouen travelled to Rome and begged the pope to intervene. In fact, the pope sent a high c
hurchman to the king in an attempt to stop the persecutions.”
“Yet they continued?”
“Most assuredly. At some point not many years later, the Jews were accused by many of being in league with the Muslims when the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem was converted to a mosque.”
“Could such a story be true?” asked an incredulous Irina.
“Whatever is repeated many times over is almost always believed by those who do not search for the truth. Whether any of this is true is often irrelevant. Even so, it aroused strong feeling throughout Europe. While crusading against the Moors of Spain, it has been said the soldiers killed every Jew they met along the way. This happened despite the fact that Pope Alexander had praised the nobility of Narbonne for having prevented a massacre of the Jews in their district. You see, my child, in France, the hatred of the Jews by the monarchy goes back at least four hundred years.”
“Father Madrosh, it cannot still be that way, can it?” Her breathing quickened and became uneven.
Madrosh lowered his head, as if the shame was his own. “You may recall that when we entered the city, we passed through the wall built by Philip Augustus. Upon his coronation, just about two hundred years ago, he issued an order compelling the arrest of all the Jews in France. It has been said the arrests occurred on a Saturday, when the Jews were in synagogue. Everything they owned was confiscated. Their valuables, their investments, their precious metals—all of it went into the king’s treasury. Their lands, houses, and barns were all converted into gold and silver, and all of it went to Philip.”
Irina sought a place against which to lean, the weight of Madrosh’s words pressing her hard. Have we made the right decision, then?
“Then, not twenty years later, he reversed his thinking when it occurred to him that the financial skills of the Jews would be even more valuable to him. At once, he issued edicts favorable to the Jews—similar to the ones in Poland. This was not done because Philip had become penitent. Rather, his reasoning was that it would enable him to tax all their activities. In effect, he made them serfs. The Jews and their possessions were the property of the king and his barons. The king even had a separate treasury account recorded and called “Produit des Juifs—Proceeds of the Jews.” That is why so much is known about this period.”
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