Irina, noticing the man by chance, breathed an immediate sigh of relief. Had there been an official of some sort with three or four soldiers, she would have known le Duc Dampierre’s influence held sway somewhere in King Charles’s court. Yet who can this be?
From what she could see, the man knew how to handle a horse, and was dressed well. It can only be a prosperous merchant or someone in the noble classes.
The rider continued to come toward the house, his eyes apparently fixed on the façade since he looked neither left nor right. How he handled the horse seemed somehow familiar to Irina, but she gave it not a second thought. It must be someone we know from the business.
At about thirty feet from the front door, the rider stopped and simply stared at the house.
Irina called, “Velka, someone will be at the door,” but there was no answer.
The horseman stared, then broke his countenance with a smile. No, it was not a smile. It was a smirk.
“Velka! Velka!” Irina shouted, but still there was no answer. She held her hand to her chest as her breathing became rapid and intense. “Rosta. Rosta, hoch tutai! Hurry!”
The horse stirred, apparently unsure as to his rider’s command. The man’s sneer was unyielding.
Incredulous, Irina saw who it was, but without thinking the man might hear her, screamed, “Rosta!”
The rider’s smirk broke into a smile of pure pleasure. Slowly, he turned his horse and rode away.
Irina watched, unbelieving that Tomasz Wodowicz was alive, much less that he was here. In France. At her chateau. At the gate, the rider turned to look back at the house, then jerked his horse to the left and rode away. Rosta appeared.
“Yes, My Lady,” he said, breathing hard.
“Where is Velka?”
“She took little Stashu out for a ride, and to see Monsieur Chevalle,” he said, attempting a smile.
It took only a few seconds for Irina to divine what might happen. “Get Jan! Get my horse! Then to the shop! It’s Tomasz Wodowicz.”
Rosta stood speechless for only a moment, then ran as fast as his legs would go.
Irina knew she had little time.
…
Rosta ran to the barn where he thought his master would be tending his foal, but le Comte Brezchwa was nowhere to be seen. Without thinking twice, he readied a mount for his mistress and rode it himself to the main house, where Irina paced at the entrance door.
“I am so sorry, My Lady. I could not find him.”
“I cannot wait!” She bolted off. Where is he!
…
Chevalle and his men—Etienne, Phillippe, and Marcel—were behind the shop having a lunch of stale bread, cheese, and mugs of red wine. With the doors and windows thrown open to catch the fresh, cooling breezes, their hot, steamy spaces became bearable on a day that had, so far, been easier than most.
As on most days of late, their chatter—uneven owing to the language hurdles—centered on the lack of orders. Chevalle cautioned them. “You men may be freer than you think. If le comte et la comtesse do not produce work orders, we will all be free to leave here.”
“But with no place to go,” said Marcel.
There was a sound in the shop, coming from the entrance. “Chevalle, come see little Stashu,” Velka called out.
Chevalle rose, as did the others, and they all went inside, greeted by Velka’s broad smile.
“Look, Chevalle, the boy is taking his first steps, and he is coming to you. Catch him!”
The grizzled carpenter had taken no interest in the boy when the Brezchwas first brought him around. Then, he was in arms, a bothersome noise, and he said so. Now, however, he reached out and waited for the little one to fall into his arms. With a toothy smile, he embraced the child in the same way he caressed a beautiful carving. For a giver of gruff words more often than not, he was speechless.
Velka chortled. “He has found his grandpère, n’est-ce pas?” she said in her butchered French.
“Aha! I have found you,” said the strange voice at the door. “Monsieur et Madame Brezchwa have sent me to fetch the boy immediately.”
“And who are you?” Chevalle demanded.
“We do not know…you,” Velka’s voice trailed off. “Or do we, Tomasz Wodowicz?” she said, surprised at the name passing her lips. She reached for an iron bar used for wedging wood. It was three feet long and thick as a javelin. She swung it with both hands, but Wodowicz grabbed it from her with just one of his and swung it toward Chevalle. It struck home. Everyone heard bones snap as Chevalle held his ribs and yelped in pain. He sank to his knees, and before Wodowicz could strike him again, he fell face first to the stone floor.
Wodowicz stepped over him and, ignoring Velka, went for the three black men who were backing away from the arc of the iron bar. Phillippe picked up a hammer and flung it at their assailant, but missed. Marcel ducked behind a work table. Velka took a running step and jumped on his back, her arms around his neck, but Wodowicz slapped her away with ease.
In the meantime, Etienne, too, had gotten behind him and jumped on his back. Wodowicz swung the iron bar back over his head in an attempt to knock out his attacker but, instead, struck the latch holding closed the large copper cover atop the steam press. Steam forced the lid open.
Wodowicz threw Etienne off his back and, with the iron bar in his arm raised aloft, was about to smash him to the ground, but another pair of hands came at him from the side—it was Jan Brezchwa. One hand grasped the arm with the weapon while the other hand grabbed hold of his tunic. Still another pair of hands wrapped themselves around Wodowicz’s legs.
They would have succeeded in throwing Wodowicz into the steam press, boots and all, but for his coat buttons catching on the tray onto which boards meant for bending would be fixed. Only Wodowicz’s head and shoulders cleared the lip, and Jan Brezchwa used his free hand to pull down the copper cover, pinning his arms, the oiled leather gasket sealing his fate. Despite Wodowicz’s flailing legs, Jan and Phillippe use all their force to hold the lid and him in place.
Wodowicz’s growl turned into a nightmarish howl as the steam did its work. Within seconds, the eerie sound from within the copper steamer ceased. His body went limp, and the men let it drop to the floor. His head had become like a boiled melon, like an opaque, pink blister atop a human body. Where once a cruel smirk shone, there was but a slit. Where once cold eyes bore down on his victims, there were two black dots, sockets finally empty of hate.
Velka had already snatched Stashu out of harm’s way and was running out toward the road, where Irina had ridden up, leaves and dust flying as she reined her horse to a halt. She took Stashu from Velka’s arms and went back into the woodshop, where she saw her husband standing over the grisly mess fouling the floor.
Shaking, Irina handed Stashu back to Velka and embraced her husband. Stepping away from him, she looked down at the remains of Tomasz Wodowicz and, still breathing hard, she said, “May God take your soul—straight to hell.”
Chapter XX
1410
Even after so many years, Irina felt the same satisfaction at the thought of Tomasz’s death. Although Madrosh had reminded her more than once it was not her place to sit in judgment of Wodowicz or anyone, she felt certain—hoped and prayed for it, in fact—that the man’s soul rotted in hell.
What happened in Chevalle’s shop that October day revealed once more that Jan Brezchwa was a giant, belying his image of an unassuming, unpretentious squire. Her thanks to the Almighty were not just for her husband’s bravery, but that at last, a debt had been paid for the Joselewiczes—and Berek.
“Oh, Jan, how did you know?” she had said through her tears of joy—joy that her son was safe, joy that his would-be kidnapper was dead. “I thought you were off somewhere, that I would be too late!”
“It is very simple, my dear,” he said, smiling humbly as was his
nature. “I was out riding—Rosta had just forgotten—and on my way back, I saw Wodowicz leave our front gate and turn down the road toward the shop, a place where almost no one goes. Don’t we know that?” He laughed.
“But how did you know it was Tomasz?”
“What I also saw,” he answered, shuddering, “for just the flash of a moment, was the look on his face when he made the turn. You forget, I also knew that face from Sokorski Castle. I knew it was him, and of what he was capable.” Jan exhaled. “That’s why I followed him.”
Irina remembered pulling herself into his chest and hearing Jan’s heartbeat, ever grateful that it beat for her and Stashu. For however long I have left, my love for Jan is what I will take with me.
She sat in front of the fire remembering that moment when Velka came in to tell her people from the village were talking about another revolt. “Revolts! How many have there been since the one when Wodowicz came—as if he had brought the trouble with him?”
“It is hard to know, dear Velka. To me, it seems that the French people want to live in nearly perpetual battle. It must be their temperament, nie?”
Just a year earlier, in fact, the revolt of 1409 had been crushed mercilessly, and, once again, little had been gained, except that for two years running, the cemeteries of France had a steady stream of new residents. The civil war settled nothing and the pain to the nation seemed to have been as great as cancer’s pain had become to her.
Throughout all the chaos, she queried every traveler from the east for any news of her Stashu, but her requests were always answered with a simple shake of the head. The world seemed preoccupied with death, convulsed as it was with wars and revolutions. Though cocooned in quiet Giverny, she could not escape the feeling she would never see her Stashu again. The time left for that to happen will soon be gone, mon Dieu.
Monsieur le Docteur Bernard’s recent visit had confirmed that for her.
“Madame Brezchwa, I wish not to intrude on your day, but I feel that I must ask how you are doing with the pain.”
“Why is it you know all about this disease, but can do nothing about it!” It was not a question but a frustrated acceptance of reality.
Bernard bowed in apology. “Madame, there is so little we know about so much. As I said when the weather was much warmer, it is not within our means to treat it or cure it. Indeed, I should have recognized this problem sooner, but alas, it would have made no difference, I am most sorry to say.”
“Why do you begin and end in apologies, Bernard? Perhaps, this is God-sent for my sins.”
“Think what you wish, My Lady, but it is your body that does you harm, and I do not know why God would want to inflict so much pain on one such as you.”
“You can do nothing, then?”
“For the disease, no. For the pain, we can do one or two things. At present, I would have Velka gather ice chips in an oil cloth when the pain is at its worst, and place the ice pack directly on your stomach—it will give you some relief.”
“Pfffft! Is that all you can do?”
Bernard paused. “My dear Lady, there will come a time, perhaps soon, when the pain will become more intense. When you feel you cannot cope with it, send Rosta for me, and I will come. We have something the monks have used for hundreds of years—a mixture of opium and hemlock—that will dull the worst of it.” Once again, he bowed his head in apology, and imparted to her what else she might expect in the following weeks.
When the good doctor had departed, Irina instructed Velka to scrub everything down. She said, “I want everything as clean as possible.”
“Oh, and Velka, please gather some ice.” As her mind wandered into her gallery of treasured moments when God Himself seemed to be standing at her side, she smiled as she thought of the events that had changed their lives.
* * *
1379
The political storm began brewing inside Paris’s walls, and the mood of the people, like the Black Death, spread outside its gates, seeping into every city and village in France. As the nobles struggled to restore order, the Brezchwas remained in Giverny and spoke to no one, lest they become swept away, like twigs in a raging river. Nothing had been heard from Dampierre or anyone else at court, for that matter, and everyone in the household wondered why.
Into the maelstrom, a most unlikely savior arrived on a blustery fall day, someone Irina had never before met. As if a sign from heaven, a man calling himself Jerzy Andrezski arrived from Poland, taking Irina and the entire Brezchwa household by surprise when Velka announced his presence. They were even more astonished when out of the well-appointed carriage popped Zuzanna Kwasniewska. Resembling her eldest sister even more closely than before, her auburn hair, full of curls, framed a pretty picture. When Irina took her in from head to toe, she could not help but notice the striking blue eyes and the wide smile.
Irina went to her knees and hugged her little sister fiercely, as if she would never let her go. In the midst of their happy tears together, she looked up from Zuzzie’s shoulder and saw her brother, Eduoard, who had stepped from behind the coach with a broad smile. How prosperous this man and my brother appear!
Opening his arms, he reached for his sister, and said, with mock seriousness, “Lady Irina? Hah! To me, you’ll always be my little redhead.” They both laughed, and Irina blushed.
“I will confess all later, brother, but first tell me about our family.”
Eduoard held her close and said, “Except for Peter—who is running things at St. Michael—and little Zuzzie and me, dear sister, they are all gone from plague. You couldn’t have known Matka i Ojciec went to look for you the day after you left.”
“And I met them in the caravan from the east on its way to Poznan,” Jerzy explained. “Most of us caught the plague, I feel certain, but thanks to my little angel here, I somehow survived.”
Irina reached for Jan. “I see,” she said in a small voice. It did not take her long to wonder if her family would have survived had they not left St. Michael in search of her.
As if reading her mind, Andrezski said softly, “It is wise not to think about what might have been, Lady Irina. What is more important is that you and your family are safe!”
“You mean, about Tomasz?”
“On our way here, the people talked only about two things—the latest revolt and the man at Giverny who escaped the French axe man.”
“I’m curious, Pan, why did you come just now?
“Apparently, My Lady, there is much we all have to talk about, but we hurried because Tomasz was on his way to kill you. Of that, I am just as certain as I am that he killed his father who died keeping little Zuzzie from his grasp. Even Duke Sokorski could not escape Tomasz’s madness. Ah, there is much we don’t know,” Andrezski said, “but thank God, you are safe. He’d gotten very clever, that one,” Andrezski said. “Thank, God, indeed.”
“We do,” Jan said, attempting to lighten the moment, “but we could stand here all afternoon, couldn’t we?” Graciously, he invited them all in.
Eduoard said, “We rode hard hoping to arrive here before him. The coach slowed us, but how could we not bring little Zuzzie?”
…
Irina could not have been more pleased to see her brother and sister. To know they were alive and well was such wonderful news. That the rest of her family was gone forever rekindled feelings she’d rather have forgotten. Perhaps it is the guilt I’d rather forget.
The emotional whirl was complete only with the revelation that her brothers were managing a large portion of Andrezski’s glass business. Then another thought occurred to her. My brothers! They have become the success we hope to achieve!
Meeting and listening to a merchant like Andrezski piqued her curiosity even more than how her brother Peter was making glass. It rapidly became clear the wily Pole had a business savvy neither Irina nor Jan understood. Clearly, Andrezski possessed a sense
of urgency and was willing to take great risks. He came all the way to Giverny on a hunch, didn’t he?
The merchant asked many questions about the furniture manufacturing business, noting at one point the many parallels their two enterprises had in common. Through the fall, while the leaves flew and died to dust under their boots, Jerzy learned every important aspect of Chevalle’s business, and he, in turn, explained its finer points to Irina and Jan. Jerzy tried to make it simple for them.
All the while they talked, everyone delighted in keeping an eye on little Zuzzie, who played on the tile floor with her nephew. The wooden shapes Chevalle had carved for Stashu kept both children avidly engaged.
“All enterprise is the same,” Andrezski said, trying to keep the Brezchwas attention. “There is a good that someone wants and will pay for. The price has to be reasonable to the buyer, but most importantly, the buyer must believe you have a good that he himself has to have. It is the latter part that makes your role, Irina and Jan, the key. You have to convince people you have something they all must have. You must pour yourselves into your success. To do less will mean failure.”
He went on to discuss the cost of labor and materials, all as it related to pricing and profit. “However, it is you who will make the Parisians want what you have to sell,” he emphasized again. “You and Chevalle have to give them something they cannot obtain now, and cannot live without.
“We have tried that, but they say we have what everyone else has,” said Irina in frustration.
“You must make bigger plans, then. Bring them here for dinner parties and let them dine on Chevalle’s tables! Entertain them.”
“Yes,” she agreed with more enthusiasm than she felt. His suggestion was a variation of the plan they’d intended to implement. “Of course,” Irina said. “What a marvelous idea. Our chateau can be quite charming, nie?” She poked Jan in the ribs, laughing some more. “And why didn’t you think of that, Comte Brezchwa?”
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