“No,” Andrezski responded sheepishly. “In truth, I did not know of a tie between Father Shimanski and you,” he laughed, “and then, between you and Zuzzie.”
“When can we see Zuzzie with our own eyes?” asked Edouard.
Peter held up a hand to get their attention. “Pan Andrezski, do you mean to say only Zuzzie survived?”
“You have a sister, Irina, nie? She also survived, the nuns have said.”
Peter and Eduoard spoke, one interrupting the other. “Irina alive? Can it be?”
“Yes,” Jerzy assured them. “Mind you, I have not seen her myself, brothers. According to the nuns, she came to the convent on her own and expecting a child. After she left, Zuzzie appeared, and sometime later, one of the nuns realized they were sisters.”
The brothers sat down, disbelieving their ears.
Andrezski told them what else he had heard.
Peter spoke up. “But why would anyone take a simple farmgirl to Paris?”
Jerzy shrugged his shoulders, acknowledging his own lack of answers and understanding. Then he remembered something else. “Sister Luke did say Irina appeared to be a woman of wealth, and that she had her own servant girl with her.”
Edouard’s face defined disbelief.
Peter said, “That couldn’t have been Irina, then. I just don’t believe it was her.” To him, it was final.
Andrezski then explained to the brothers the real reason for his visit. Over two hours and a bit of bread and cheese washed down by a home brew, they discussed the possibilities, and everyone agreed St. Michael could be an ideal place to make glass.
By mid-afternoon, the visitors needed the remaining light to return to Poznan. They parted, but not before assuring the Kwasniewskis they would be back—with little Zuzzie.
Chapter XV
1378
No Christmas season would ever warm Tomasz Wodowicz. He’d long before abandoned faith in man or God, and his dealings with his supposed representative here on earth—as Bishop Tirasewicz was wont to remind him and everyone else—gave him the all the proof he needed that the world he knew was all about might and money. Nothing else mattered.
This had been the first Christmas, however, that he could provide a feast for himself, thanks to the departed bishop. In an out-of-the-way inn on the edge of Poznan, he had supped well and paid for the best ale, despite curious stares from the innkeeper. He had done all of this in solitude, a state in which he’d spent most of his life.
While he enjoyed the companionship of Big Franciszek, it was true, he never felt he was with someone. Franciszek was a gamepiece to play with, maneuver to his liking, and otherwise pay no heed. Where was the big man now, Tomasz wondered? And what about Duke Sokorski. The duke being alive and expected in Poznan in the spring suggested the Hungarians never existed, that he and Franciszek had just imagined them. And that can’t be! Sokorski and the impostor of a noblewoman should be dead! He scratched his head and ordered more ale.
As he fell asleep that night, his saddlebag clutched to his chest in what passed for a private room at the inn—something he’d never experienced before—his head swirled with all sorts of notions, and by the time he woke the next morning, a plan had already begun to take form. If that peasant woman, Irina Kwasniewska, could pass herself off as a minor noblewoman with a little money and better clothing, couldn’t he do the same?
Retrieving his horse from the inn’s stable, he mounted up and continued to think about how he might change himself. Oblivious to the cold and the wispy flakes of snow filling the air, he set out for St. Stephen’s. As his horse trod on, the snow thickened and deepened, so much so that if he hadn’t been traveling a well-worn track, he’d have lost himself within the white unknown.
By midday, concern edged its way into his thoughts. The notion of making a shelter of pine boughs and building a fire in the snow had no appeal whatsoever. Resting alone in the woods was an invitation for a wolf pack to sup on him, and that thought alone spurred him to keep going. He did not stop, and as the snow rose nearly to the horse’s knees, concern turned to alarm.
He had no choice but to plod on. Before daylight began to ebb, however, he began to believe in the God he had forsaken. There could never be a God, he’d learned to believe, who would let him be born into squalor, and live no better than a barnyard pig. No matter what the priests said, God was just something to fear, and in his everyday life, there were too many others to fear. And yet, unless his senses betrayed him, he felt sure he was inhaling wisps of chimney smoke. Smoke from a cookfire. Smoke from a dwelling.
He kept going, letting hope and horse guide him as the heavy snow dragged the smoky air closer to the ground, closer to him. A miracle! Or perhaps it was just luck. Finally, his horse led him to a wide clearing and he could just make out a line of huts in the disappearing light. All were dark and quiet but one. On his right, there stood the village’s largest building, and from a window opening, a soft glow peeked around the waxed cloth used to keep out the weather.
Deep snow silenced his movements, giving him the advantage of surprise. He dismounted a few feet from the only entry he could see, and without thinking twice about it, pounded on the door just as someone with authority might do. In a moment, an old man leaning on a stick peered out.
“Open up, old man! Don’t you see I am a traveler in need of shelter?”
“Indeed, sir. Come inside. Prosze.”
Wodowicz pushed past the man and saw he was not alone. A young boy stood close to the fire glowing on the hearth, fear a gleam in his eyes. He ignored the boy. “What is this place, Pan? Where am I?”
Apparently surprised by his question, the old man said, “Why, you are in Wozna, good sir, except that this boy and I are the only ones left from the plague.”
Wodowicz took a step back, remembering his death sentence from Duke Sokorski.
There ensued a small conversation about the place before the old man said, “And you can see, good sir, we have little food to offer, but there is shelter for you and your horse.”
“Never you mind, my man. I am provisioned.”
The boy ran to the door.
“Where are you going?” the old man asked through his broken teeth.
“To get the man’s horse, Dzjadzja—Grandfather,” came the respectful response.
“I’ll go with you,” Wodowicz said quickly. “You see to the horse,” he spoke, ordering the boy, “and I’ll see to my saddlebag.”
Returning within a few minutes, they were warming themselves by the fire, when the old man said, “I am called Jozef and the boy is Padasz. He is my grandson.”
“Padasz?”
“Yes, he was born in a rainstorm,” he chuckled. “And from whence do you come, good sir?”
“From Poznan. I remember your village from another time, Josef, but did not recognize it in the storm, and,” he hesitated, “without people.”
“Yes. It has been hard, but we scavenged what dried vegetables were left by the others, and since the spring past, we’ve had a bit of grain brought to us by the monks and their merchant when they pass through.”
“Merchant, you say?”
“Why, yes. Pan Andrezski and his men come through here with their glass wagons. The monks are generous to us.”
“Why, of course!” He thought a bit. “How often do they pass?” he asked with the same interest any passing traveler might have.
“At least once a week, but with this weather, it may not be for a while.” The old man cleared his throat, politely. “And you are, sir?”
“I am,” Wodowicz stopped, unsure what to say next. “I am,” he repeated, “Squire Krawcyk.” It was a name he’d heard was used by people living east of Poznan, and probably unknown to the old man.
“Then welcome, Pan Krawcyk. You may stay as long as you wish.”
“Indeed I will, Josef. I will stay t
he winter and pay you well—on one condition.”
Surprised, Josef stammered, “To be sure, Squire. To be sure.”
“I seek rest and refuge and don’t care much for socializing with travelers, no matter who they are. From time to time, I may break my silence and converse with those passing through, but only at my choice.”
Josef nodded.
“Are you sure you understand? Make sure the boy does, too.”
“Indeed, Squire.” He nodded again, resolutely.
Wodowicz liked the sound of the title. In a moment, Wodowicz—Tomasz the Terrible—had become Squire Krawcyk. He decided to be magnanimous in sharing a bit of veal and pork with his innkeeper. The old man produced some ale and stale bread, and given what would have been his chances in the snowstorm, Wodowicz—Squire Krawcyk—relished the feast before him.
* * *
1379
Winter never seemed an auspicious time for travel, but the day had arrived for Duke Zygmunt Sokorski to depart for Poland. Along with the Feast of the Three Kings culminating the Christmas season, the Poles who had come to know each other intimately over eight months now had the far less joyful duty of bidding each other farewell.
In their time and place, Irina—and everyone else—commonly understood life was indeed, tenuous, and one must make the most of every moment. Sudden death from an unseen malady, from the violence of battle, or from the vagaries of cruel injustice—was an everyday occurrence. And so it was such a reality that came to Irina and Madrosh when, two days after Epiphany, after all the religious symbolism and pageantry had concluded, the caravan of horses, carts, and carriages was readied in the courtyard of the Palais de la Cité.
Wrapped in the repurposed blue woolen cape that reminded her of when she and Madrosh first met, Irina stood in the stone archway observing the leave-takings. They were intense and laborious with every precaution being taken for the safety and survival of the travelers. There had been thought of waiting until spring to make their journey, but the season of new life was also a time for battle and death. Though the weather might be treacherous for them, it would be less menacing than men lying in wait.
Men stamped their feet in the packed snow and horses pushed out great cloudy breaths while they awaited their masters’ commands. The duke, Jan, and all the others savored their partings, often teary-eyed and sentimental, as they bid one another, “Bonne chance!”
Although Irina had developed warmer feelings for the duke, the man he had been in Poznan and the good Christian he seemed now gave her pause. There was something about him that made his repentance seem a shallow pond, not the deep lake it ought to be. Even so, they embraced, and she thanked him for his generous patronage.
Then she watched as Duke Zygmunt mounted his horse at the same moment Madrosh came out of the keep and faced his protégé. The two eyed each other like a pair of pups happy in the presence of one another. Their relationship had been natural and proper, but deep, even though they knew they were an unlikely pair.
“Words do not come to me, Master Madrosh.”
“Ah, Master it is now, is it?” Madrosh riposted as lightheartedly as his emotions would allow, his voice quavering.
“Of course it will always be you who is truly master to me and many others. And so, Madrosh, with what words will we part?”
“I could have many, my dear Comtesse,” he said with a broad smile, “but many we have already had, have we not? We have exchanged more in months than many do in years.” After a moment, he continued. “Aside from all the warm compliments I might pay you this day—and which you know are in my heart—I do have one thought to leave you that might sum up so much of our many talks.”
“We shall exchange the same compliments in the same way, then.” She bowed in sincere humility. “And what are the words that flutter over this farewell, then?”
“When we last talked, that cold day in the gardens by the Seine, you’ll remember we touched on God’s eternal battle with evil.”
“Yes, I recall it well. It seemed we were not quite finished.”
The priest nodded. “It is just this—not an answer but a question.” He looked directly into Irina’s bright blue eyes. “If we agree that evil exists only because we let it exist, then could it be true that God must contend with it because of us?” He let the question hang.
Madrosh placed a hand on each of Irina’s shoulders, bent down, and kissed her on the forehead. “It is a terrible question with which to leave you, but having come to know you, I suspect you equal to the challenge. You will understand the answer when it comes. May God bless you, my child,” he intoned, his right hand raised, and made the sign of the cross over her. Just then, Irina reached out a hand and placed it on his arm. “Wait, Madrosh! I know that answer. It leaves me no hope. There must be more you can say.”
Already turning, Madrosh checked himself. He looked deeply into her eyes. “If one accepts the existence of God, then one must accept the reality of hope. It is why we talk about salvation, in part through the sacrament of confession. We acknowledge our sins, accept responsibility for them, and pledge not to sin again. This is the central tenet of all belief in God, Irina: We must try to be good, be better than we are, and we so commit ourselves. Yes, it is that. We can be better than we are.”
Irina nodded. She remained quiet, and smiled in both gratitude and sadness. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she said nothing, her silence sealing what was in her heart.
Jan and Madrosh held one another in warm embrace. Then Jan stood next to his wife and held her tight.
Light snow fell as Madrosh mounted a beautiful white mare and steadied himself. Then Duke Zygmunt clasped his heavy cloak around him and together, heading their procession, they rode slowly away from the palace, toward the same gate through which they all had entered Paris months before.
…
With little time after the holidays to pack their things and make final arrangements for their move from Paris to Giverny, they were at the mercy of the bitter weather descending upon them. What they soon came to know was that the small chateau and farm at Giverny was in a poor state of repair and hardly a residence, except for the four-footed kind. The previous occupant, Jan had been told, had so angered King Charles that he paid for his insult to royalty with his head, and the poor man’s family had to leave hurriedly.
Yet the place was theirs—even if just for a year—and they were glad to be gone from castle intrigue, infidelity, and indolence. With Rosta, Velka, and a team of workmen, they spent two months in the biting cold restoring the interior to a level of civility and cleanliness acceptable to Comtesse Brezchwa.
In the unheated January air, Irina and Velka were vigorous in their labors, making Chateau Fournier both habitable and clean. Once, sitting near the one small fire they built for themselves, they were sipping tea when Velka said, “I want to tell you about something that has bothered me.”
“Yes? Rarely do you ask to speak—usually, you blurt out what bothers you.”
“Be glad they are gone, My Lady.”
“What? How can you say that, Velka? Madrosh is very dear to me.”
“Not the good Father, My Lady. Not Duke Zygmunt.”
“Then what? Or who?”
“King Wenceslas. Or rather, one of his knights.”
“What about him?”
“You and the other one great with child—you had little to fear. And I, plain looking that I am, also had little worry, but not so other women, married or not.”
“What do you mean, Velka?”
“You are naïve, if I may say so, Irina. One of the knights was like a wolf in the woods where women were concerned and he did not care whether they were interested in his attention. His king, Wenceslas, seemed not to notice. Or care. Many are glad to see their backs, but will not speak of what they were made to do.”
…
Another proble
m Irina had not wished to face presented itself most clearly as the year began. The weeks of basking in royal largesse were over, and the couple needed to find a prosperous livelihood as their wedding gifts, along with Irina’s cache of Joselewicz gold and silver, would not last forever. Continued court life would be costly, especially since Jan preferred to remain a military professional in service to royalty, but Irina discovered that often, such was a poor existence. All the more so, she came to understand, because they were living in France—but were not French. She and Jan complemented each other well, but because of who they were and where they were, livres were not going to grow in their orchard.
They had to find some venture in which they could invest, yet manage its affairs closely, using their talents accordingly. Weeks went by while Irina and her reluctant husband debated the possibility of a business with Antoine Chevalle. One conversation stood out.
“Irina, he is rough, uncouth—unsuitable to represent the pieces so beautifully wrought by his hands,” Jan had said. “And you, my dear, object to his use of black men so.”
“Yes, but perhaps we can change some aspects of his business—a craft you found fascinating, as I recall.”
“I did, indeed, but as you’ll also remember, Chevalle said his business was not doing well—a fact he did not care to hide.”
“Do you suspect it is doing poorly because he has one little sign off the road in Giverny? No one of wealth would find him, or having found him, venture into his shop—except someone like you, dear husband.”
“You are correcte, Madame, and I bow to your observations. I must admit he has no one like us to present his work in the right royal circles.”
“And there is one other thing, Comte Brezchwa,” she had said with a charm she had almost forgotten, “and that is this: He is French, and his name will be important for all the wrong reasons.”
“I bow once more, my Comtesse,” he said, and leaned closer for a most passionate kiss.
With Velka there to care for little Stashu, she and Jan repaired to their chamber for an afternoon of lovemaking neither had yet experienced with one another. Alone and in the great bed, it was clear to her the boyish Jan had never been with a woman before, but somehow, he knew exactly how to please her. His hands were soft and knowing, and his lips had their own knowledge. Later, they saw one another in a different, most fulfilling way for the first time. Their smiles, their tender words spoke volumes—without words—to tell each other there were no regrets.
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