Irina

by Philip Warren

  What he could not tell Josef was that he had developed a taste for killing. He had bashed in more than a few peasants’ heads in his time, to be sure, and had never been called to account for it. Despite admonitions of the church and its commandments, it seemed killing was only a crime when a peasant committed the act. True, there were rare exceptions, like the priest, Rudzenski, but for the most part, forgivable killings were permitted by the overlords or their minions.

  Killing the Jews was a good example. It was his duty to the duke to rid the city of them, one way or another, and he had no regrets. Burning so many had given him immense satisfaction. And until he had flung his father into the flames, he had never realized how much he hated him. Seeing him lie helpless and forever stilled in an instant had been a pleasure. Doing away with the seamstress was purely a matter of self-defense. No moment of sleep would be lost over any of them, and neither would there be any hesitation over the coming death of Duke Sokorski, the one man who should have stood by him.

  For weeks, he urged his horse through the woods, retracing the same steps he and Big Franciszek had taken so many months earlier. It snowed and rained, but he felt himself an accomplished man of the woods. The endless stands of leafless birches were empty of robbers and Hungarians, and for that he gave the Almighty his thanks. “Boze, are you there?” he once shouted to the trees.

  At last, he found the broad span of sunlight signaling his arrival at the river valley of the Oder. And ahead, to the north, was Krosno. It looked the same, but as he squinted in the afternoon glare, he noticed the flag above the castle was German, not Hungarian.

  “Now I’ll know what happened,” he muttered to the bare brown and black limbs of every plant and tree.

  …

  By Ash Wednesday, the flow of invitations to Chateau Fournier and other homes of the lower nobility began to slow, and as the days warmed, there would be fewer still. For that, the Brezchwas were relieved. Being seen in one salon after another was an expensive proposition, and their once grand pile of gold and silver had now dwindled; there remained but half a year’s subsistence for them and their now extended family at the Chevalle workshop. Easing the financial strain were the occasional sales of a piece or two for someone’s country estate, and the proceeds served to feed and shelter Chevalle and his men. Just as important, the sales helped finance the purchase of fine woods and other materials for the pieces they’d designed.

  Much work remained to be done. Chevalle’s nimble fingers were busy making miniature versions of the large pieces, replete with tiny brass fittings, like armoires and side tables for silver servings and fine cutlery. The miniatures could be carried easily at the back of a coach and four so that interested parties had something to see before agreeing to buy.

  For the larger pieces, Phillippe and Etienne, two of the freedmen, were trained to shape and bend the slim boards of oak, elm, hickory, and cherry, but Chevalle’s steam presses were ancient, and plagued with breakdowns in the piping system. The pipes, short sections of hollowed oak four inches in diameter, were wrapped and sewn tight with leather, then slathered with a black pitch found lying in puddles on the ground at the foot of the Pyrenees and brought eastward for sale to purveyors such as Chevalle. When the system worked, it was efficient and effective, and over the years, Chevalle, the master cabinetmaker, had learned many tricks to obtain the gentle and perfect curves he sought.

  Just how fragile the steam presses were became evident one day when Jan stopped by for a visit.

  While Jan and Chevalle were talking above the shop’s din, there was a sudden snap and hissing of steam clouds. Then Etienne shouted, “Mon Dieu!” in great agony and emerged from the cloudy hiss holding his right hand in the air with his left. The man’s black skin ended below the elbow where it had turned pink and bubbled.

  Chevalle rushed to the man, grabbed his arm, and, drowning it in one of the buckets of ice cold well water, held it there for some minutes, until some relief appeared on Etienne’s face. Phillippe could do nothing with the pipe until the water stopped boiling.

  Later, Jan told Irina he felt guilty because he might have distracted the men with his questions, causing poor Etienne to react instinctively rather than thoughtfully when one pipe section separated from another. In only a few days, the men would have the steam press repaired and in full operation, he reported, but it would be many weeks before Etienne’s severely scalded right hand would be fit to use.

  The Brezchwas had their very surprised young Docteur Bernard look after the man, but aside from some poultices and cold-water soaks, there was little to be done.

  Chevalle swore mightily, and the quiet industry prevailed, but at a slower pace.

  …

  The ride into Krosno proved uneventful, fear Squire Krawczyk’s only companion the entire way north along the river and up to the bridge to Teuton lands. He could not shake the memory of the last time he’d crossed the river.

  On the one hand, he felt satisfied to have escaped the Hungarians, but on the other, he would be crossing into lands not always friendly to Poles, and there would be no welcoming arms at Krosno to greet him.

  Perhaps there will be no enemies either, he thought, and with a deep breath of resolve, spurred his horse to cross the bridge at a brave canter. Though he’d had several weeks since leaving Wozna to think about things, to concoct a plan of sorts, once seeing the place again, he had no idea what to do or what to expect.

  Landing on Krosno’s cobbled stone square, near to the moat bridge from which he’d made his dash, he looked the square over and let his eyes settle on a prosperous-looking building. He made for it at the slowest pace his thumping heart could manage, and found that he’d guessed correctly. It was an inn for travelers of means.

  He decided to stay in place a few days to learn what he could before riding another mile. Information was what he wanted. One item was simply a matter of curiosity: What happened at Krosno with the Hungarians? The second piece of information was vital: What might people have heard about noble travelers heading east, and what route would they take? What better place to hear such things, he concluded, than an inn where ale and talk flowed freely?

  …

  Warm weather would soon sweep across France, the Brezchwas knew, and nearly everyone of standing at court would adjourn until cooler evenings would allow gatherings at which both men and women were once again clothed in heavy, brocaded layers of finery. Irina and Jan breathed easier, and looked forward to a long summer with little Stashu. Pressure on them to host Dampierre, Tellier, and their friends would evaporate with the heat.

  Weekly, one or the other of the Brezchwas visited their furniture manufactory to monitor progress. Etienne’s hand had healed, and he proved an eager apprentice, much to Chevalle’s surprise, and eventual pleasure.

  They’d been careful to sketch pieces that would show off Chevalle’s talents for fine engraving and edgings, and gilded paintwork equal to that in demand amongst wealthy Parisians. One feature they liked to mention to their bejeweled friends was their ability to design and execute skillfully hidden secret spaces, sized to suit the needs of courtiers at any level of royal society. The women, especially, enjoyed hearing about a space where their most precious jewels—love letters, perhaps—could be safely hidden away.

  The Brezchwas enjoyed their own secret in this regard: An unintended consequence of what they called their “special” feature was a competition that developed amongst a certain class of nobles as to which of them needed the largest compartment—suggesting ownership of the largest cache of gems. “Such fools,” Jan had said to Irina, and she replied, “And from these fools livres flow!”

  Their respite ended when a note arrived from le Duc Maurice Dampierre. It was polite but pressing. The duke said he’d been singing their praises all over Paris and he wanted a firm date for a showing at Chateau Fournier.

  After intense conversations with Chevalle and his f
reedmen, and consultation with the French court’s keeper of the calendar, Jan and Irina settled on Sunday afternoon, the 21st of September.

  “This will be ‘do or die,’ my dear Comtesse Brezchwa,” Jan said.

  “Such an interesting turn of phrase, but not to worry, my darling,” Irina said, “we will have all summer. We have just enough money, and the men have just enough time.”

  …

  One particular voice drew the Squire Krawcyk’s attention, its timbre piercing the din of hearty revelers a few evenings after his arrival. It was a voice that gave him both a frisson of fear and a feeling of familiarity.

  He stood on his stool to find its source, and when he did, laughed out loud, but in the crowd of bone-weary men drinking away their ailments, no one paid attention. He climbed down, grabbed his stein, and pushed his way through the gentry of the peasantry, as it were. They parted for the man dressed in garb reserved for the nobility; in their society, everyone knew his place, never to change from birth to death—unless by deception.

  All week long, the squire had worked to perfect his role. He postured and demanded, and—despite surly looks from many—his costume and his supply of silver spoke for him. No one challenged his questions, but answered him with respect. Yet no one seemed to know anything. He did not bring up the Hungarians directly, and dared not, yet to his surprise, no one seemed to recall any excitement ever happening in Krosno. It was as if everyone had lost their memory, as if what he had seen and experienced had never happened.

  He saw that tonight would be different. Holding court in the company of knights and squires was none other than Sir Ortwinus Esel, his high voice commanding the attention of all. “Aha!” the man boomed as he stood, “now we have another Pole come to make our lives interesting. And who are you, sir?”

  Squire Krawcyk made his practiced introduction and bowed to the man in front of him. “At your service, Sir Ortwinus!” he bellowed over the noise around him. “As one of those interesting Poles you mentioned, let me stand for your next stein of beer.”

  “Indeed, good Pole, and I mean no offense by what I said. Let us,” he said, his voice still high but slurred, “be done with these people so that we can build a bridge between our two nations.” He laughed at his own silly words, and added with a further laugh, “and if you have the silver, I will be your friend.” He draped his arm around Krawcyk’s shoulder and led him to a small table in a part of the room beginning to clear with the hour. Dropping heavily onto a stool, Sir Ortwinus signaled the barman for replenishment.

  “You must be an important man here, Sir Ortwinus. Everyone gives heed to your words.”

  “Indeed, you are correct, good Squire. None of these people,” he said, waving his hand over the crowd, “knows what I know.”

  “And I am a mere squire who knows so little.”

  “And a Pole at that!”

  Krawcyk fought the urge to ram the baked clay stein down the man’s throat—in pieces—but he knew the Teuton’s knowledge was worth more than gold. “Ah, but allies—is that not so?”

  “A most interesting word, that.”

  “How do you mean, good sir?”

  “The Germans and the Poles have always been like two lovers who spend more time quarreling than loving, eh?” Sir Ortwinus sipped his beer and smacked his lips. “What happened here last year was when we were allies, but it sickens me to this day.”

  “How’s that, my friend?” Krawcyk had spent enough years as a castellan around nobles to learn how to work them with the right questions.

  “I am forbidden to talk about it, and the townspeople have been warned.”

  “Then, perhaps, we should not talk about it,” Krawcyk said, eyeing his opponent warily.

  “But if I can’t talk about it to the king’s ally, then who can I talk to, eh?”

  “King?”

  Ortwinus either ignored the question or simply couldn’t hear it. “Good that you do not know any of these people, Squire. Then you will have no interest in repeating what I may tell you.”

  “You are correct, Sir Ortwinus. This is my first time in Krosno,” he lied.

  The Teuton twice slapped his stein down on the table, apparently a signal for the barman to bring more beer. While they waited, Krawcyk could sense the man giving him careful scrutiny. “And yet there’s something familiar about the way you carry yourself, good Squire.” Then he guffawed. “But perhaps you Poles are all the same!”

  Again, Krawcyk counseled patience. He would have loved to squash the fat German sausage, but more, he needed what the man had—information.

  When Sir Ortwinus quaffed another deep swallow of beer, he said, “The Hungarians. Hah! They came here thinking they could take Krosno Castle from us—and with the help of your Pole, Duke Sokorski.” He paused, remembering. “Good God! What a mistake they made. Every one of them, including the big, yellow-haired Pole who had come to negotiate—they were all burned to death. All of them!”

  “You mean the one they called ‘Franciszek,’” Krawcyk said, regret and fear accompanying his words as they flew from his mouth.

  Sir Ortwinus took another long swallow and was halfway to putting his stein on the table when the squire’s words registered. He stared directly at Krawcyk, examining every feature of his face. He stood, hands flat on the table. Then he pointed at his visitor. “It’s you! You are the one who escaped. No one was to escape!”

  “Y-y-you are mistaken, Sire.” His tone was pleading, abject.

  Sir Ortwinus turned and shouted to his men at the other end of the room. “Come at once. Arrest this man!”

  …

  At the bishop’s palace in Poznan, Jerzy Andrezski and his crew prepared the many window openings for new, fitted and hinged glass windows, each with red, orange, and yellow panes mixed with clear. The work was strenuous, with dust and bits of glass filling the air.

  “I know you’ll be most careful, Jerzy,” Father Shimanski said to his friend, the glass merchant.

  “Indeed, Father. We know you want the palace readied for the new bishop. Have you had word on his appointment?

  “There have been rumors, but I am not at liberty to say, my friend.” He smiled with pleasure knowing something the very knowledgeable merchant did not.

  “So, you are taking care of things until then, Father?”

  “Yes, that is correct. I do not know if you’ve heard, however, that Duke Sokorski has suffered an injury on his return from Paris.”

  “An injury, you say?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. He is an older man, as you know, and perhaps he could not react quickly enough when his horse stumbled descending to a river barge in Germany. He will have to heal in the village of Berlin, but most of his entourage is with him.”

  The two continued to talk while Andrezski and his men went about their work. Father Shimanski asked about the business in St. Michael, the Kwasniewski brothers, and, with a broad smile, about little Zuzzie.

  “Everyone is doing well now,” Andrezski said. “Zuzzie stays with her brothers from time to time, but otherwise, she stays with Sister Luke at the convent, where she is safe.”

  “Safe, you say,” Father Shimanski said. “It is sad she had to witness Tomasz—who is, indeed, a Terrible one—murder his own father.” The priest made the sign of the cross. “What could possess a man to kill his own blood?”

  Andrezski had been guiding a man planning a window frame to fit, when he said, “Oh, my good and gracious God!”

  “What is it, Jerzy? Did you injure yourself?”

  “No, Father. You said something—something like, ‘What could possess a man to kill his own blood.’”

  “And so I did. What of it?”

  “It ties to something Zuzzie said at the time and we all ignored the words of a frightened little girl. I don’t remember exactly her words, but it makes sense now.’

&nb
sp; “What’s that, my friend?”

  “Wodowicz had not come all that way to kill his father in the middle of nowhere. He had no reason to.”

  “What did Zuzzie say?”

  “We thought she was confused. She said Tomasz had lifted her over his head, then his father. It made no sense then. But now it does.”

  “And what does it mean, Jerzy?”

  “It means, Father, that he was there to kill Zuzzie. The old man must have tried to protect her, eternal rest be unto him.”

  The priest mouthed a silent prayer.

  “And it means something else. Wodowicz ran away, some say, to the west.” He paused. “Didn’t you tell me once, Father, that Bishop Tirasewicz and Duke Sokorski had condemned him at St. Stephen’s?”

  “Yes, for stealing silver and gold from the Jews.”

  “From the Jews?”

  “Yes, it appears that when Wodowicz and his men sacked the Joselewicz house, they kept back some of the booty for themselves.”

  “Isn’t the Joselewicz house the place where Zuzzie’s sister worked? Irina?”

  “Yes, my son. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking Tomasz Wodowicz means to kill again. I’m sorry, Father. I will have to leave this work to my men and your good supervision.”

  “But…”

  “I must see Sister Luke. Too much time has been lost. I must hurry.”

  Chapter XVIII

  1379

  Two soldiers dragged the erstwhile Squire Krawcyk across Krosno’s square, across the moat bridge, and into the castle. Once inside, with the portcullis slammed to the ground behind them, Krawcyk began to sense what had really happened in the courtyard, lit only by torchlight at that time of night. He walked into an airless wall of stale smoke and burnt flesh he could smell but not see, and for that, he was grateful.

  “You will enjoy your stay with us until I can learn what to do with you.” Sir Ortwinus was displaying the most pompous version of himself, exaggerated, no doubt, by the vast volume of beer he’d consumed.