“You enjoy my suffering, don’t you?” he said rather loud. “I love you, you know, with all my heart, with all my soul.” His curly blond hair shone in the moonlight.
Her cheeks felt hot. His open declaration of love was almost too much for her to bear. As she playfully calculated the best response, she turned around, meeting the stern eyes of the sovereign. Color left her face. His towering height and his stooped shoulders made him look like a predator.
“I will see you in my chamber,” the monarch said coldly, reminding Krisztina of the extent of his authority, and without further words, he retreated.
She joined him a few minutes later, disheveled and teary-eyed.
“Have a seat,” he said, looking her straight in the face, while she tried to avoid his furious gaze. “You are a member of royalty, and there are duties enshrined in that status.” Each word gained in volume and intensity as he spoke. “By continuing this path, you will be disinherited and cast off.” He paused then added, “He is the son of our woodworker for God’s sake.”
The Duke continued in a frostier tone, “You are probably contemplating marrying this . . . this fool, who used to play with pigs and cleaned up after horses. In that case, you would have to live in hunger and poverty, and you will not be very happy once this infatuation gives way to bitter reality. Living in hardship means that you will lose your beauty, and he will no longer be interested in you.”
As her lips began to quiver and her eyes became flooded with tears, he added in a kinder tone, “Members of the royal family are like peacocks, there is a mystique to them from afar. They are beautiful when seen from a distance and ordinary up close. You cannot mingle with the masses, and you cannot allow this infatuation to go on much longer. Call it love or what have you. But it cannot be.”
Krisztina became pensive. In her heart, she still felt defiant, although there seemed to be some sort of logic to what her uncle was saying.
“Mstislav, the cousin of the Grand Duke of Kiev has asked for your hand in marriage,” the monarch added in a formal tone as if discussing a matter of policy with his ministers. “He seeks our support in defeating the barbarians responsible for the devastation his homeland has faced. This is a difficult time for Europe. We are in danger of an imminent attack by the same hordes. Kiev is now our ally. I highly recommend that you accept Mstislav’s offer. Otherwise, I will be forced to disinherit you and place you in a position that no woman of nobility should suffer. Mstislav is a man of royal upbringing and would be a suitable husband for you. He could preserve the honor of our family, and the marriage will also seal the alliance.”
“But uncle,” she protested meekly, “he seemed so cold and unapproachable at the banquet. He hardly said a word to me and kept staring at his shoes as if he found them more interesting. I doubt the existence of any affection towards me on his part.”
“Affection or no affection; that is the end of my argument,” he stated somberly. “Pray tell me your decision by tomorrow, but know that you will have to bear the consequences.”
After a sleepless night, Krisztina went out for a walk down the stone path that encircled the castle, the very path she took with Wiktor whenever they had a chance to meet. She brushed past the wisteria trees that used to conceal them from curious eyes watching from castle windows. Dark clouds foretold of rain, but only a tiny droplet or two touched her face. Her temples throbbed. Her eyes burned with yet unshed tears. She blamed herself, she did not know why. How could she blame her uncle who was like a father to her? She had to obey and respect his decisions as the ruler of Poland.
The sky knitted a row of thunderstorms. In her desperation to leave the palace to get some fresh air, she had not brought a shawl along to wrap around her shoulders. A cold shower ensued, pounding her under-dressed body. The piercing needle-like droplets stung her skin. Despite the cold and her wet clothes, she was still steaming inside. Her cheeks burned from the frosty raindrops that mixed with her unceasing tears. Destiny’s cruel turn had divided them forever, and they could not go back to the blissful ways of the past.
Krisztina returned crestfallen to her chamber and found it filled with flowers with a note in an unfamiliar hand.
May I have the honor of a private meeting with my lady?
Signed, Mstislav.
She recalled the words of her uncle as she stared at her wet, wild-looking reflection in the mirror. What if poverty destroyed her looks? What if Wiktor’s love for her ceased now and forever? She imagined herself running away with him and forgoing the luxuries that ensured her beauty, her status, her charm.
She thought about Wiktor. Their love like a fire engulfing a white field of cotton had taken over their lives unexpectedly, infusing their souls together. Yet, she knew deep in her heart that this passion would not last. She began to believe that Wiktor’s love could turn into a slippery slope. Her sister Zofia was too young for her to share her misfortunes with; therefore, sadness weighed heavy on her heart when she found no one that would understand her grief. Yet, she knew her uncle had spoken the truth; this had to end.
The monarch had allowed them a last farewell. Krisztina knew harsh bluntness would be the only way to get her message across to Wiktor, without both falling to pieces. That afternoon she chose the shadow of the wisteria trees for their meeting, hoping that the lavender blossoms surrounding them would soften the blow.
“I am to marry Prince Mstislav of Kiev. My uncle will not have it any other way.”
“But we are promised to one another. You gave me your word.”
“Promise or no promise; you are the son of a woodworker, and I am a member of the royal family.”
“I am an officer in your father’s army, now in charge of my own unit.”
“Yes; a petty officer.”
“How can you speak to me so?”
“It is you who need to learn how to address me as your superior,” she said, hiding her trembling fingers behind her back. Oh, how hard it was for her to utter such words to one she loved so tenderly! But the dagger had to be forced to kill what he felt for her, or his suffering would multiply with false hope. “I am betrothed now to the cousin of the Grand Duke of Kiev, and it will not be long before I move to Kievan Rus.”
“Does he love you as I do?” was his only reply.
Wiktor’s face looked like rigid stone, but her eyes felt like a tumultuous sea. She could barely restrain herself from sobbing. “Such love should be forbidden as sin,” she said, “for in due course it will turn passion into loathing and hate. I will be shunned by the nobles if I marry you, and grief at the turn of fortune will turn any love into aversion eventually.” Sorrow welled up in her heart as she spoke these words. Tears were choking her, yet she managed to keep them from flowing down her cheeks. She bit her quivering lips and struggled to focus, landing her gaze on a lifeless object, the dead branch of a nearby flowering tree that had failed to bloom.
Wiktor was furious that she did not wait to hear his thoughts. His feelings did not matter. When he returned to the barracks and his lonely chamber, his tears gushed out in agony. He felt broken, abused and betrayed.
Finding not a soul around understanding enough to share his grief, he kept the pain to himself. What a fool he had been to give his heart to such an unworthy creature. Unworthy? He wished she had been unworthy. Had he a thousand hearts multiplied tenfold, he would have gladly sacrificed each and every one of them before her feet. He was the one unworthy of her. But she had not expressed remorse.
Anger turned into bitterness in his heart. Oh, the pain of remembering those eyes pleading with him, knowing full well that she remained beyond his reach. She belonged to another, and he had been a fool who had lost her. Could he turn back the hands of time? How could he recover from a love that he had nurtured since childhood and now its roots reached deep within his soul?
“Oh, cursed fate,” he cried, “you have ripped out my heart, and
yet I live. What life is this; to breathe, to eat, to drink, to sleep, to sustain oneself for what? Death, blessed death would only end this pain, this dreadful agony. The cool earth of the grave will soothe this burning heart.”
He stared out at the wet road, visible from the window of his chamber. It was as if the life that he had imagined for the two of them crumbled like an ice palace before his eyes, and the remnants were rinsed out with the ensuing rain.
Chapter Four
The Fake Ambassador
The following day, a French Ambassador arrived to meet the High Duke of Poland on matters of security. The man who presented himself, however, was none other than Bolad, a Mongol spy dressed to look like a French dignitary. Only one fully familiar with the language could have detected his slight accent.
Bolad’s aquiline nose, light skin, and dark brown hair that formed large curls around his slender face made him look European. Therefore, he was chosen by the Mongols to gather information on Europe. His father was an officer in Genghis’s army and his mother a captive brought to Karakorum from Georgia. If one paid close attention, one could detect his Mongolian heritage in his features, like the slight slant of the eyelids, the thin eyebrows, and the protruding cheeks. He appeared shrewd and observant. When he narrowed his dark brown eyes, it was as if he could see the depths of people’s souls.
Bolad had received training since early childhood to speak several languages including English, Persian, Chinese, and French, and at times served as an interpreter to Mongol officials. At other times, he became their eyes and ears as a former Persian King used to call his scouts.
“As you are aware,” the emissary spoke in French knowing that the Polish Monarch understood the language, “there have been disturbances—to put it mildly—occurring in different parts of Rus territories caused by the barbarians of the Steppes. Among the subjects of attack are fortresses, castles, and palaces. I have been sent on a mission by the Government of France to ensure the safety of the royalty in Europe. Being an expert on security matters, I can give you advice as to what additional fortifications are needed to ensure your safety in case of a surprise attack.”
The fact that a small entourage did not accompany the French envoy, a norm in such diplomatic missions, must have struck his hosts as a rather curious matter. But the ambassador’s regal attire, embroidered with threads of gold, appeared to have ensured the Polish Royals that he indeed represented the French Court.
During the course of dinner, the eyes of the ambassador rolled in every direction, taking in every nook and cranny of the castle. After dinner, his hosts led him on a tour of the other quarters in the castle. In the end, he asked if there were any other routes for escape. The High Duke assured him that no others existed.
Henry the Pious stepped out into the garden at dusk to escape the unbearable environment of the castle. He could still hear Krisztina crying in her room. Three days had passed since he had told her to end her relationship with Wiktor. A thick fog slumbered lazily. The first row of tall birch trees obscured a fence beyond which lay the road to the castle. If an intruder climbed over the fence, guards standing ten feet away from that spot would not be able to discern him. The monarch frowned at the idea.
The High Duke returned inside to join his wife for supper in the private dining hall of the castle. Deep in thought, he kept his eyes on the blood-red wine offered to him in a golden chalice. He had not removed his crimson cape and gold crown that he had earlier donned for a formal meeting with the army commanders. He knew the white fur edge of his bejeweled crown covered the furrowed lines on his forehead, but could not hide the concern on his face.
Europe had fallen into a state of disarray that it had never known before. Feudalism had turned the continent of green pastures and abundant orchards into a divided region. News of the Mongol invasion of Kievan Rus had slowly reached the other parts of Europe, and the Mongols’ ambition of establishing the Golden Horde in the vicinity of Poland felt like the realization of Henry’s worst nightmare.
His wife, Anne of Bohemia, appeared concerned. A brewing storm from the Far East was threatening Christendom. “Who are these Mongols?” she asked.
“They are nomads of the East, hoping to conquer the West. I have learned from the Grand Duke of Kiev that each Mongol warrior carries two or three horses along. When in need of nourishment, they slaughter them, consuming their raw flesh and drinking their blood. Thus, they retain full mobility during raids, for they need not set up fires and cook food for their cavalry.”
He stared for a moment at the complicated design of the Persian carpet spread on the floor and added, “They never take the beaten tracks, but always find new means of approaching their destinations. They have already defeated the Jin Dynasty, devastated Persia and Transoxiana, attacked Kievan Rus, and now they are threatening Hungary and Poland. Magnificent civilizations of the East showed little resistance. It is as if they panicked and succumbed to the Mongols.”
“What is the secret to their military success?” she asked.
“The Mongols are viciously patient as they await their prey like packs of hyenas outside the walls of a city which they have placed under siege, driving the inhabitants within to the border of starvation. They force the captured craftsmen from more sophisticated civilizations to build siege engines and other instruments of warfare on location. No merchant dares to enter or exit the city, knowing that they will be ruthlessly killed. Then they light their fires and wait there for weeks, setting up camp by the border walls. They do so with the patience of the hunter. And as they wait, the targeted city runs out of supplies, and the starving men and women inside lose their will to fight.”
“I am concerned for Krisztina’s safety. Is it wise to send her off to Kiev under these circumstances?” the queen asked. “I saw her speak with Mstislav, and I am not sure if she has any tender feelings for him. I suspect she agreed to the marriage out of a sense of duty. Even Mstislav seems more interested in an alliance with Poland than love or admiration for her.”
“She will fare no better if she stays here. That woodworker’s lad is likely to lure her into an unfortunate marriage or elopement which could be disastrous, not only for our reputation but her own prospects as well,” he replied, pushing aside the goblet of red wine that he suddenly found distasteful.
“Is there any way that this confrontation can be avoided?” the queen asked. “From what you have told me, the Mongols already rule large parts of the world. Maybe through meeting some of their demands, we can avoid an all-out war.”
Her husband moved toward her, caressed a few strands of her golden hair out of place and said, “There is a reason why women should stay out of politics.”
The queen frowned but ignored the slight and asked, “There is something else bothering you. What is it?”
“Walking past the cathedral this morning, a stone rolled off the cupola and hit me hard on the head. What do you think it means?”
The queen, who looked concerned, opened her mouth to say something, but decided otherwise.
Chapter Five
The Raid
Subutai Bahadur had the stature of a bird of prey with long nails and sharp teeth. His voice sounded as if it came from the depths of the grave, husky but strangely feminine, like metal being sawed against its grain. He had piercing eyes, and his nose resembled a large beak. One could easily imagine him wearing feathers on his back and made to look like a vulture. Genghis Khan had entrusted Subutai with the strategies of war when he was young, and he now continued to plot invasions under the command of Genghis’s progeny.
From his thin lips that at times opened to a ghastly wide grin, he uttered words that made others shiver. “To conquer Hungary,” he said, addressing the Mongol commanders in their encampment, “we need to first subjugate Poland. Bulgaria as well will get to feel the sharp claws of the Mongols. The expeditionary force dispatched to Europe has brought back a tre
asure chest of information.”
Strands of white hair stood out of his pointed helmet, the only sign that he was nearly sixty. “Our spies have been monitoring the Europeans. We know of their manners of fighting, their heavy armor, and their superstitious beliefs. They believe in magic, and magic is what we will bring to them in the form of smoke. We shall use gunpowder for that purpose and create a smoke barrier that would shield one army from another. If they succeed in joining forces against us, then we will use the smoke screen.”
The Mongols had already crossed the Danube, sliding their way across the thick layer of ice on the river that had yet to melt. The traces on the ice rewrote human history as the warriors arrived at the gates of Europe.
The commanders were dead silent. Subutai’s voice resonated within the ger. “To conquer the kingdom of Hungary, we must ensure that the Poles do not come to their aid. That would mean that we would have to divide the Mongol forces. One army would be sent to keep the Poles engaged during our attack against Pest.” He moved to a map rolled out on a table, his armor screeched.
Subutai placed his forefinger where the lower reaches of Poland lay to show where the venue of attack should be. “Here is where we begin.” He paused for a moment, turned toward the chief officers and added, “Europe is a land where division rules. Neither Poles nor the Bulgars nor the Germans nor the Hungarians get along. There is even division between the Papacy and the Roman Emperor, a rift that threatens to become an all-out war.”
“Such news is music to my ears,” Batu Khan, Jochi’powerful son and heir, replied. He intended to take part in the invasion of Hungary and had assigned to his older brother, Orda Khan, the task of conquering Poland.
Batu had a rather pleasing countenance. Just as ambitious as Subutai, he considered himself entitled to the wealth bestowed upon his father by Genghis. By annexing portions of Kievan Rus, Batu could now pursue his dream of establishing the Golden Horde, his own kingdom. The enmity that once existed between his father and Genghis’s other sons had now infected him and his cousins. He had gone to Europe to prove his mettle, to show the world his worth in hopes of attaining the Mongol throne as the next Khaqan. Subutai, on the other hand, being a calculative, cunning strategist in this gamble called war, refused to take risks.
The Sky Worshipers Page 18
