Irina

by Philip Warren

  “Ask someone here at the castle. You are mistaken about seeing me here. I’d only heard tales about the giant of a man some in the alehouse said was called Big Franciszek.” He tried the lie because it was all he had.

  “There’s no one to ask. Everyone decamped shortly after the royal party itself left on its journey west.”

  “Where—why did everyone leave?”

  “Wait until you see the courtyard in daylight, my good sir. If the stench took your breath away tonight, light will make you think this place is hell, baked to cinders.” He nodded to the soldiers. “You may as well put this sod up in the gallery where the stench is worst. I’m doing you a favor,” he said turning to look at his well-dressed prisoner. “Down below, the air is better, but the rats are hungry. Take him!”

  “Wait! The duke you mentioned—Duke Sokorski?—he will stand for me. I’m certain he knows my people.”

  “Hah! The duke is laid up with a broken leg. He won’t ‘stand’ for anyone!” The man’s jowls shook as he enjoyed his joke.

  Krawcyk made a face of disgust as he was led away, but called back to his warden. “We must talk, Sir Ortwinus. I can be of service to you!”

  The words caught the noble’s attention, but he did not turn around.

  A week went by, during which the prisoner remained confined to a small gallery apartment with little else to do but think. He chastised himself for having been so stupid as to mention Franciszek by name, but there was a chance the fat and lonely Ortwinus would want to believe him.

  The apartment’s entrance was off the second gallery overlooking the courtyard, and with a window opening in the castle’s outer wall, there was an opportunity for fresh air to pass through, but it seemed none did. The unrelenting stink of the chasm below soaked into his nostrils and his clothes.

  For a small piece of silver, however, the guard provided distraction with more chatter than Sir Ortwinus. Day by day, he learned exactly what happened to the Hungarians and to Franciszek. The guard spared no grisly detail and, in fact, seemed to enjoy the obvious torture of words inflicted upon his prisoner.

  For the first time he could remember, Krawcyk wept. True, the big, yellow-haired oaf was little more than a hound skilled enough to do his bidding, but he was the only companion he’d ever known. There had been women to satisfy his needs from time to time, but they proved themselves as irritating as the stink of this prison. Whatever he was, Franciszek was faithful to his master. A good dog was he!

  One other thought pounded his brain. Duke Sokorski oversaw the murders of many dozens of men, even if only Hungarians, but he let Big Franciszek burn with them. His vow for revenge became even more fervent.

  Krawcyk could hear the clatter of hard leather boots and light armor approaching on the long, planked gallery floor outside his door. The first thought to occur to him was that the Teutons would be true to their reputation toward the Poles, and he would be executed before the noon hour. He was trembling in the chilly, spring morning air, when Sir Ortwinus appeared with another man, bearing not an axe with which to sever his head, but a tray of foodstuffs.

  “You said you could be of service?” asked the noble, continuing their conversation of a week before as if no time had elapsed at all. He had his man set the tray on the table, and invited Krawcyk to sit with him. “Let us discuss your service over a bit of lunch.”

  The two men ate and talked about nothing at all for some minutes, when Krawcyk reached under his elegantly sewn tunic—a move giving Ortwinus a moment of fright—and, as if by magic, presented a pair of gold coins imprinted with the image of Louis of Hungary. “This is how I can be of service,” he said, and waited.

  “Where did they come from?” asked the surprised Ortwinus.

  “Ah!” Krawcyk responded, and smirked, “your men searched me for weapons, but not for coins sewn like a shield into my undergarment.” Krawcyk lifted his tunic and glinting in the few rays of sunlight finding their way within the apartment was a blanket of gold and silver coins covering his chest. “A clever seamstress in Poland did this for me while I waited one night.”

  Sir Ortwinus took it all in. “What’s to stop me from killing you and taking all you have, my good Squire?”

  “I have already paid off your guard, good sir.” He nodded at the coins sparkling on the table like golden diamonds. “These are for you. In a moment, I will rise and leave the castle on your best horse, and you’ll never see me again.”

  “Why should I not raise an alarm?”

  “Hasn’t there been enough dishonorable killing in this castle?”

  …

  In Giverny, the summer commenced with Chevalle and each of his men laboring their utmost on the designs worked out by the Brezchwas. Chevalle’s collaboration proved most important in that he had demonstrated himself a master at the clever concealment of the secret compartments so much in demand.

  What spurred them further was the implied promise from the illustrious and powerful Maurice Dampierre of unending orders from those with the means to pay for them. Though the king’s taxes would be high, the net result meant the Brezchwas, Chevalle, and his men might look forward to a comfortable winter.

  Etienne showed himself a true mimic, successfully and beautifully imitating much of the work Chevalle was able to produce. Phillippe and Marcel worked equally hard assuming duties with the temperamental steam presses.

  The most astonishing development Jan and Irina noticed and appreciated was how Chevalle beamed with pride at the transformed abilities of slaves who’d become free. During one day’s visit to the shop, in fact, Chevalle and Jan were talking. The former shook his head, and looking in the direction of the three black men hard at their labors, said, “It must so be true.”

  “What’s that, Monsieur?”

  “That all men are at their best when they’re free.”

  Altogether, their harder and faster work foretold a productive summer. Everyone knew the pieces had to be carved, manufactured, stained, and varnished, with plenty of time to cure before the show date written in charcoal upon the whitewashed wall of Chevalle’s shop: “September 21!”

  …

  Not waiting for Sir Ortwinus to reconsider his silent assent for the fate of his prisoner and his gold, Squire Krawcyk secured the best horse in the castle’s nearly empty stable, and rode off into the spring sunshine toward Berlin.

  Several days into his journey, as he and his mount floated on the Oder, he learned from his many conversations with the boatmen and at overnight stops along the way about the time and distance in front of him. No obstacle was too great. Revenge became his energy.

  His story was simple: He, one Janusz Krawcyk, was a squire from Gniezno, Poland, on his way to meet with his uncle from Poznan, Duke Sokorski, who lay injured in Berlin. Thus, everyone understood his interest in traversing land and water without delay. Based upon reactions and responses to his plight, he guessed he was on the same path the duke and his party had passed the year before. Even better, in most towns where someone of nobility resided, he was put up for the night and fed with sympathy, given the purpose of his travel. He’d even heard how brave he was to make such a journey alone.

  At one of these stops, a village past Frankfort, he aroused a bit of curiosity when he asked for someone known for their potions. Nevertheless, he was directed to an old man who, by his appearance and surroundings, seemed to be an outcast—by his own desire.

  The squire’s first words to the man called Vodo were slow and cautious, but soon, without a single explicit word between them, the plant wizard, as some called him, produced a small clay vial sealed with a carved bit of cork. “This will serve you well, Squire,” he spat out through broken teeth and wisps of untended beard, and he held out both hands, one with the vial, and one to receive payment.

  The squire’s first impulse was to skewer the man on his short sword, just as he did the greedy seamstress
, but he thought better of it, and simply laid a coin on the man’s palm.

  “You will be very satisfied, my friend.”

  Finally, Krawcyk reached Berlin, situated at the junction of the rivers Spree and Havel. He found an inn looking sufficiently prosperous to board someone of his stature, and spent the next day listening at various alehouses nearest the castle, more a glorified stronghold, just beyond Berlin, at Spandau.

  At one, just at dusk, he heard Polish words amidst the noise of men who’d had too many steins of ale, and sidled over to the speakers, a personal servant to Duke Sokorski and his doctor.

  “Because the man won’t be still, the leg will not heal,” the doctor complained.

  “And taking care of his personal needs will soon fall to the hands of another, if I have to say anything about it,” the well-dressed servant said.

  The most important thing he noticed was that neither of the men had been in the duke’s retinue back in Poznan, and he wondered how they happened to be there. Better for him, thought Krawcyk, and good luck just the same. So many others around the duke would recognize him in a moment. The more he listened and observed, his plan seemed to form on its own.

  Feeling it was safe to do so, he introduced himself and the three enjoyed more steins of beer, all at the newcomer’s expense. They conversed in their native tongue, laughing at the Germans and their haughty manner with impunity. Krawcyk told the men he was passing through to Paris, and would be on his way early in the morning.

  At the end of the evening, the duke’s retainers invited him to stay with them, and when they’d finished their bread and cheeses, washed down with a good pilsner ale, the trio walked to the duke’s stronghold. In their rooms, the doctor produced a leather flagon of ale to further quench their thirst.

  Once the doctor and servant were deep asleep, Krawcyk slipped out of the room and stepped carefully through the stone-floored hallway. At the duke’s chamber, he listened, and hearing nothing, went in without knocking. Only one candle, nearing its end, flickered by the duke’s bedside where he rested, sitting up, asleep and snoring softly.

  “Sire,” Krawcyk whispered, “you must awaken.”

  “W-what?” He opened his eyes and looked at the bearded man in front of him. “Who are you? Where’s my servant?”

  “Not to worry, Sire. Your man sleeps well after too much beer,” he said lightly.

  “Then what do you want?” the duke demanded, now fully awake.

  “Your doctor insisted I bring this medicine to you. One of its properties,” Krawcyk went on blandly, his eyes on the floor, “is that it helps heal bones much faster, thus allowing you to travel in no time at all.”

  “That doctor knows nothing, but let’s have it, then. You can tell the man you followed your orders.”

  Krawcyk proffered a small pewter tray on which lay a silver cup engraved with the duke’s herald. The duke took the drink and downed it. Exhaling deeply, he leaned back on his pillows.

  “You did not say who you were. Squire, is it?”

  Krawcyk ignored the question, but waited quietly.

  “Why are my legs tingling?” the duke asked, making a face of distaste.

  Still, he said nothing.

  “My arms. I have no feeling in them. What medicine is this?”

  “That’s how Wolfsbane works, My Lord,” he said, then let his smirk be seen.

  Slowly, the duke recognized the man before him. “You!” His voice became hoarse.

  “Remember what you had me do to the Jews?” He waited. “Then you condemned me.”

  “But I have repented,” Duke Sokorski said, his unfeeling hand moving toward his throat.

  “But I have not,” Wodowicz said softly. He waited until the duke’s eyes were unblinking, then held the candle to the man’s nose to make certain no air moved.

  Snuffing out the candle with his fingertips, he retraced his steps, and after leaving the near-empty vial on the candle table by the doctor’s bed, fled to his lodging in Berlin where he slept well through the night.

  …

  “These mounts cannot go fast enough,” Jerzy Andrezski called to Eduoard Kwasniewski, who rode alongside him on the road from Poznan to St. Stephen’s. Ahead was a small, covered coach, pulled by two fast horses, and inside were little Zuzzie and Sister Agnes Mary, a nun sent along by Sister Luke of the Dominicans.

  Andrezski and Sister Luke had debated the issue. “Sister, we must travel to Paris as soon possible. I’m certain Irina Kwasniewska’s life is in danger from Tomasz Wodowicz.”

  Incredulous, Sister Luke asked, “How can you be sure, Jerzy?”

  “Because he came to kill little Zuzzie, not his father. His father died only because he tried to protect our little angel.”

  “But why should Zuzzie embark on such a dangerous journey? She is but six years old, a little girl with you and her big brother. I’m sorry, Jerzy, but that does not seem proper to me.”

  “Then send one of your young nuns. Didn’t you send two nuns with Irina Kwasniewska last in May a year ago with Duke Sokorski and Father Madrosh?”

  “Yes,” she responded, “and my two nuns are on the way here now, along with Father Madrosh.”

  “And the duke?”

  “Duke Sokorski, I am sad to say, is dead. A messenger delivered the news to Father Shimanski a few days ago, and you were away.”

  “Dead? How so?”

  “They say he was poisoned by his doctor, but no one believes it according to the messenger. The doctor and the duke’s servant are in prison and may be executed.”

  Andrezski stood and began to pace. “That news, Sister Luke, gives us even more reason to make for Paris.”

  “Why not simply send a messenger by fast horse? He will be there in a month or so and Irina Kwasniewska will be warned.”

  “This may be the only time to let Zuzzie meet the only sister she has—and unravel the mystery about the woman they call Lady Irina.”

  “That all sounds very noble, Jerzy, but very impractical.”

  After much pleading, during which Zuzzie ran in and begged to see her sister, Sister Luke relented. “I hope you’ll not regret this, Jerzy Andrezski.”

  Two days out, they stopped at Wozna. Eduoard made the acquaintance of Josef and Padasz while Jerzy settled in the horses and their female charges for the night. Not an hour into their conversation with the old man did Jerzy and Eduoard hear the same thing: a man in rough clothing had appeared many weeks before and to their surprise presented himself as a squire from the east. More surprising, Josef reported, was that after an absence of several days he appeared once again dressed in much finer clothes. All Josef could remember was that the squire claimed to have family who’d invited him to Krosno. Well into the night, Jerzy thought about what he’d heard.

  The next morning, the party prepared to depart when Josef said one other thing. “Even after he grew his beard, he still had that smirk. It made me afraid.”

  Atop their horses, Andrezski nodded and said, “You were right to be afraid, my friend, and be glad to have seen the back of him. He is a murderer and is on his way to commit another.”

  They made it to St. Stephen’s, where to their pleasant surprise, Madrosh and the duke’s party were encamped to rest before their last leg of a long journey home.

  “Father Madrosh,” Jerzy began, “we have never had occasion to meet, yet I hope you’ll be glad to meet two people accompanying me.”

  Aged and weary, the priest said, “I am glad to meet you, good merchant, and I have heard of your deeds.” Looking over Andrezski’s shoulder, he asked, “And the two I must meet?”

  “Here are Eduoard and Zuzanna Kwasniewski, big brother and little sister to Irina Kwasniewska—whom I’m sure you know?”

  Madrosh’s mouth dropped open and he seemed about to stagger with shock. “Pan Andrezski, you stun me with your words.
” Bending low, he said, “And you are the little girl your sister so worried about! My, you are your sister’s sister, indeed,” he said, and laughed merrily. Turning to Eduoard, he said, “I suppose you have questions for me?”

  “Yes, Father. Perhaps we can talk after Zuzzie is asleep?”

  That evening, Madrosh answered all the men’s questions about Lady Irina Kwasniewska over a roast pig with potatoes and carrots. The monks’ ale made the meal go down well.

  “You mean, Father, that my sister, a peasant, like me and Zuzzie, is now a French Countess?” Not waiting for the answer, he laughed uproariously.

  Madrosh chuckled. “Indeed, sir, your sister is not only a comtesse, as the French say, she is a very smart woman married to a good man, and oh, I almost forgot. You are an uncle!”

  The trio celebrated that news with another cup of ale, but then Andrezski returned to a sober subject. “Father, please tell us everything you know about the duke’s death.”

  “Duke Sokorski had already sent me and a few others on ahead, so I can only report what has been told to me by messenger,” Madrosh said, and provided what information he was able. “Why are you so interested, good Jerzy?”

  “Because, Father, a man with my experience does not believe in strange coincidences. Miracles, yes. Sudden poisonings by a faithful doctor, no.”

  “Then what, exactly?”

  “Tomasz Wodowicz, Father. Here’s what you don’t know,” Jerzy began, and then provided missing pieces to the priest to consider.

  “Then yes, Jerzy, you are likely correct, but the Germans will probably have hung and quartered the doctor and his servant by now.”

  “Tomorrow, we ride to Krosno, and a German rider can be dispatched from there with a message from you.”

  “Most certainly, and now I have a bit more authority.”

  “How’s that, Father?” asked Eduoard.

  “When I arrived at St. Stephen’s, the abbot informed me I am to be consecrated Bishop of Poznan. A prelate from Rome has been sent, and I understand King Louis will send his own representative.” He sighed. “And now I am on my way home.”