by P K Adams
“I must speak with you,” I turned to Baldazzi, trying—and failing—to keep the urgency from my voice.
The medic looked uncertainly from me to the princess, his eyes red and bleary. I noticed that when he’d had wine, his movements lost their usual jerkiness and became smooth and fluid, almost graceful. Under any other circumstances it would be amusing, but not now.
“It will only take a moment,” I spoke apologetically to the princess, who seemed to have recovered from her weakness and was now eyeing me suspiciously.
“If you need a love potion to ensnare that pretty secretary of His Majesty’s, you had better ask a wise woman in the town,” she smirked. “Doctor Baldazzi is a real physician.” She gave him a smile in which she managed to combine both fawning and condescension, and he grinned like a child praised for finishing an exercise properly.
“It’s not about that,” I replied, too defensively. Was everyone in the castle aware of my infatuation with Konarski? “Please, Your Highness, it is important.”
“Have you already had luck with him, then, and need a different kind of remedy?” She cackled. “In that case, it can wait until the morning—believe me.” But she let go of her grip on Baldazzi’s arm.
I pulled him out into the gallery, where it was a little quieter. When we were out of the princess’s earshot, I dropped my voice. “How many bottles of your sleeping draft did you give to Helena?”
“Who?” Baldazzi looked confused.
“Helena,” I repeated, trying not to lose my patience, even as I wondered how reliable any recollection might be that came from his mouth right now. “The queen’s maid of honor who has had trouble sleeping lately? How many bottles of the poppy extract did you give her?”
He thought for a moment, his eyes slowly coming into focus. “I cannot remember.” His head swung from shoulder to shoulder in an inebriated emphasis.
I inhaled. “Please. Think.”
“I don’t know—two?”
“Two? Or one?”
“Two,” he said with greater conviction this time, then he smiled the blissful smile of a drunk. “The pretty girl with red hair and catlike eyes. She came on New Year’s Eve, and I gave her a small bottle along with her monthly dose of belladonna. Then she came for more poppy just the other day.” He swallowed a hiccup.
I paused, confusion now adding to my dread. My chest was so tight I could only draw shallow breaths. “Belladonna? For what?”
“For her womanly courses. She came to me a few months ago saying they had become painful.”
“But it is a poison, isn’t it?” I almost shouted, my panic mounting. I was trying to remember what I knew about belladonna. It was an herb whose extract was commonly used by women to bring about an enlargement of the pupils for beauty reasons, but it could also induce hallucinations and even death in higher doses. “It can kill a person, can’t it?”
“Not the amount I gave her.” He raised a hand in a gesture that was both calming and defensive. “I only measured out a spoonful into a tiny vial and told her to take no more than two drops a day. That’s just enough to relieve pain and relax tension, although”—he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper—“I suspect the real reason she wants it is to make her eyes shinier. She must be in love—that would also explain the trouble sleeping. Youth, eh?” He shrugged indulgently.
I let go of his arm, and he frowned. “What is it, signora? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He blinked at me intently.
But I could not utter a word. It was as if an iron fist were pressing on my throat, even as my mind, with an awful clarity, saw it all.
I knew what had happened.
The only thing left for me to find out was why.
I raced down the stairs, the frantic clicking of my heels on the stone steps echoing hollowly around me. I slowed momentarily on the landing as I saw the tempest of snow raging on the other side of the mullioned window, then continued down two more levels to the entrance hall. At the foot of each flight of stairs, there was a pair of guards, each man standing straight, staring ahead, and gripping a steel halberd in his hands. Their presence calmed me a little. I briefly considered asking one of them to come with me, but I had no power to order them to leave their post, and no time to go in search of such permission.
When I arrived at the main door, the guard there gave me a quizzical look without moving or changing the impassive expression of the rest of his face.
“I need to go outside,” I said. “To check on something.”
“There is a snowstorm, my lady,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I know, but it is urgent. Please let me out. I am acting on Her Majesty’s orders.” The moment those words left my mouth, I realized that I should have told the queen where I was going. She would be worried when she noticed me gone. But it was too late to go back now. Dantyszek might still be alive.
The guard hesitated briefly, then grabbed the long iron handle. Men-at-arms were not trained to argue but to follow orders, and I was thankful for that. “Be careful, my lady.” He pulled the massive oak door ajar.
I had expected the storm to be bad, but I was not prepared for the howling wind and the vortices of snow that welcomed me as I slid through the narrow opening. It was as if those swirls wanted to take me in their arms and carry me away on some wild dance. I steadied myself and took a few cautious steps, holding as tight as I could to the iced-over railing, but when I arrived at the bottom of the stairs, my satin boots immediately sank into snow that reached to the middle of my calves. I shuddered as the icy wetness seeped over their tops, soaking my stockings and clinging to my legs.
The courtyard was dim—no torch would have remained burning for two heartbeats in that weather—but there was enough illumination from the castle’s windows for me to orient myself. Then I heard a rumbling, followed by a loud crash directly above my head. For a second or two, the courtyard lit up brightly. It took me a moment to realize that it was that rare phenomenon I had heard about but had never seen—I had, to be honest, thought it was a myth. But there it was—thundersnow. It seemed that nature was determined to unleash all of her fury with that storm. If I had guessed correctly about what I would find in the kitchen, it was the worst night for it.
I was now out of the relative protection of the arcade, out in the open with the wind blowing squalls of snow every which way. My skirt whipped about my legs, and my feet were buried in snow so that I could only take slow, dragging, painstaking steps. I had not taken five of them before a mighty gust tore off my headdress, and it tumbled away from me. I stopped, my hand instinctively reaching out to grab it, but it disappeared in the whirling white cloud, and I abandoned any attempt to go after it.
I squared my shoulders against the wind and the cold, belatedly realizing that I should have gone to get my cloak first. But I could not return for it now. Something was pushing me forward like an invisible hand at my back, urging me to continue on my way.
On a normal day, the walk of about a hundred steps took no more than two minutes, but it felt like hours before the red brick of the kitchen building loomed out of the storm. There was a faint orange glow in the windows, and I guessed it was from one of the ovens left burning to prevent the water in the vats from freezing and to allow for a quicker restarting of the kitchen fires when the storm was over. What that meant was that kitchen help had to have come here every few hours to feed the fire, and they would have noticed and reported it if something had been amiss. But that had not happened, and I was beginning to doubt my reasoning. Maybe I was going crazy and would only catch a nasty cold out of this if I was lucky, or freeze to death if I was not.
I came to the front door and turned the handle, but the door was locked. I groaned in frustration. All that effort for nothing, I thought as I stood there buffeted by the wind, rattling the handle as if the meager effort of my freezing hands could ever dislodge the iron lock. But even if it could, I am not sure I could have opened the door because of the blown snow that covered t
he bottom part of it with a thick layer. Then I remembered the side door that was used for deliveries. It was worth a try.
Groping along the wall, bent forward against the wind, my eyelashes so heavy with snow I could barely keep my eyes open, I moved to the corner of the building and then around and up toward the side door. It was a bit quieter here, it being a nook between the kitchen and the south wall of the castle where the wind did not whip as much as in the open courtyard. But my face was getting numb from the cold and my breathing was becoming difficult; it was necessary for me to get indoors quickly.
I grabbed the handle of the side door, which was larger and heavier than the front door, but to my surprise and no small relief, it budged. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I registered the fact that it was unlocked and should not have been, but I was too desperate to get out of the cold to give it any more thought. I took hold of the handle with both hands and pulled with all the strength I could muster. There was less blown snow here, and slowly I managed to open the door wide enough for me to slip inside. As I did so, the bell began striking the hour, but between the howling wind and my own preoccupation, I could not keep track of the number of strikes. I thought it was ten, but it may just as well have been midnight. All I knew was that it was late, so very late.
But hopefully not too late.
My first sensation on entering the kitchen was that of blessed warmth compared to the freezing air outside, although the low fire in the oven could not have provided much heat at all. The snow on my face and hands began to melt, and my hair, uncovered and ripped loose from the hold of the pins, hung long and sodden on both sides of my face. I ran my hands through it to wring out the excess water and looked around. It was nearly dark, the only light coming from the oven, but it was just enough to see around. I noticed a lantern on one of the tables, and I lit the wick of its candle from the sluggish flames in the oven.
I knew there were two doors to the cellars—one from the main kitchen leading to the former wine storage area, and the other off the delivery passage to where fruits and vegetables were kept. I guessed that if someone had brought Dantyszek here, it would have been to the empty wine cellar. Both doors were closed, however, and it was completely quiet. It was as if the kitchen was deserted for this tempestuous night.
Again I wondered whether my imagination was getting the better of me, as Konarski had once suggested, and whether I should not just turn away and make my way back to the castle. Maybe Dantyszek had been found one way or another in the time I had been away. How long had it been? I could not tell. I had lost track of time, and the storm made it impossible to gauge it from any external signs. It could have been ten minutes, or it could have been an hour or more.
But that indefinable urge kept pushing me. Was it fate, or was it my training as an overseer of unruly girls, having to pay attention to every detail, leaving nothing to chance? To this day I do not know, but I walked across the kitchen, swallowing a lump that had formed in my throat, and turned the knob on the wine cellar door before my courage deserted me altogether.
The cold air that flowed from the passage below chilled me in my wet clothes, but I was greeted by silence. I took a deep breath, then began descending the stone steps slowly, stepping on the balls of my feet so the heels of my boots would not make a noise. I held my lantern aloft, although oil lamps flickered at intervals along the walls. One could never have enough light when searching for a missing man in a cellar that used to be a church crypt.
I stopped at the bottom of the stairs to orient myself. To my relief, I was not facing a maze of passages like the ones under the cathedral, but rather a long corridor with cells on both sides of it. Those cells, I realized with another shiver, had once served as burial chambers for Wawel court officials during the Piast dynasty. I put the thought out of my mind as I took stock of the layout of the space. There were four cells on both sides of the corridor in front of me. Behind me, an arched opening connected to the other part of the cellar, with a separate set of stairs leading upstairs. Judging by the ripe and earthy smell wafting on a current of air, that was where cheeses and vegetables were being stored.
The first three cells on each side had had their doors removed for easier access, and I stepped into the closest of them. It was empty but for two leftover barrels in a corner. I could see that the actual burial spaces were under the stone floor—much like Don Mantovano’s recent grave—and still had names and dates engraved on them. Fortunately, there were no bones scattered about, as Michałowa had feared. The cell was perhaps seven paces long and five paces wide, large for a non-royal crypt, but I could see right away that even all eight of them combined would be insufficient for the amount of wine that was consumed at Wawel.
I returned to the corridor, raised my lantern high again, and held my breath as I strained my eyes and ears. The last set of cells had oak doors that were closed. All was quiet—except for the squeaky noises of mice coming from the food storage area—and dim in spite of the lights flickering on the walls. I moved toward the stairs, my heels echoing on the flags of the floor as I stopped walking with caution. I put my foot on the first step when I thought I heard something, an indefinable sound, a sort of grunt. My first thought was mice. I ran the lantern in a circle around me but saw no vermin anywhere; besides, they did not make grunting noises.
I listened, and after some moments I heard the sound again, a little louder, and accompanied by what I thought was a clink or a scrape of metal. This time I had no doubt that someone was here, someone human, and I felt the little hairs on my arms stand on end.
Returning to the balls of my feet, I walked slowly down the corridor, my heart hammering in my chest, and shone my lamp into each of the open cells. They were all empty but for a few more barrels and scattered rags on the floor. Then I reached the cells with the doors. They were solid fitted oak doors, hard to penetrate with either light or sound, but as I approached the last cell on the right, I heard a muffled protest like someone would make if they wanted to say something but struggled with a hand clamped over their mouth. I crouched and gazed at the bottom of the doors. There, through the narrowest of cracks above the threshold, I saw faint light seeping through. I took a step back as I fought to swallow a cry.
This is the moment to run back and call the guards, one voice was telling me. There could be no doubt anymore. Then another voice asked, but what if he is injured and needs help? I never considered what kind of help I might be able to provide because the hand that had been at my back since I had left the banqueting hall was again pushing me on. Even if I had wanted to turn away, I would not have been able to do it. It was as if I were in a trance as I stepped toward the door.
I put my hand gingerly on the handle, and the moment I did that, a strange calm descended on me, my heart and my breath slowing. I pressed down and pulled it toward me, but the door did not move. Was it locked? Another muffled sound from the other side, more desperate now, and something like a shuffling of feet. I pressed the handle again and pushed it this time, and the door yielded. It opened to the inside. The rusty hinges groaned in protest.
The cell was smaller than the ones without doors, and it was lit by a single candle standing on an overturned crate. Immediately, I was assaulted by the stale smell of an unventilated space, and of a mix of sweat, urine, and mice droppings. I instinctively put my hand up to cover my mouth and nose. Then I saw a man sitting in the far corner on a makeshift bed made of old sacks, much like Maciek Koza had done down in Baszta Sandomierska. His hands were bound behind him, and his mouth was stuffed with a rag.
I knew right away it was Dantyszek, his fine hair now matted and in disarray. But I was relieved to see that he did not seem to be injured or dying. He tried to spit the rag out, but it was secured with a strip of cloth tied across his face and knotted at the back. He moved his head around, shaking it, jutting out his chin, making those urgent noises, his blue eyes bulging out of his head, but I could not understand what he was saying. I moved toward him, holding out
my hand to pull down the gag, but I had not made it halfway through the cell when I heard the door behind me slam shut with a crash that seemed to echo through the cellar.
I whipped around, and the lantern in my hand clattered to the floor, the little flame extinguishing itself in a small puddle of hot wax.
I was trapped in an empty building, underground, with a killer who was pointing a silver dagger at me, a dagger with a ruby-studded hilt.
Chapter 14
January 6th, 1520, The Feast of Epiphany
Night
At first, in the small circle of light cast by the remaining candle, all I could see was that dagger. And a hand.
Something was wrong with that hand.
Or would have been, if I had not already guessed the truth.
It was a woman’s hand.
In the next moment the person in front of me took a step forward, and a face emerged from the shadow.
“Helena!” I stepped back toward the corner where Dantyszek was sitting, the meaning of his wordless sounds suddenly all too clear. He had been trying to warn me to go back, not to step inside the cell. Now his tone had changed from desperate and pleading to angry.
She stood before me in the same brown traveling dress I had last seen her wear two mornings earlier, but the starched white lace of her neckline and her wrists was gray and stained. She was no longer wearing a headdress but kept on the linen coif, strands of hair falling out from under it and hanging limply around her face. That face seemed thinner now, its angles sharp in the low light, and her eyes were rimmed with dark circles. They shone with the same unnatural light I had seen in them when she returned to the table after her absence during the Christmas banquet.
My thoughts were scattered in a thousand directions. Why was she holding Dantyszek captive? What was she going to do with him? And—like a buzzing fly, absurd in its obviousness but maddeningly insistent— where did she get Zamborski’s dagger?