Sister Luke closed her eyes momentarily to remind herself to confess the lie she had just told—and she would wait to do so when another pastor was assigned to them. She did not understand the bishop’s intense interest in the young woman, and could think of no reason to tell the man across from her that Irina’s little sister was in the convent at that very moment.
“Ah, thank you,” he said. “No matter. We won’t be seeing her again, I venture. She and the serving girl have continued on to Paris, France, and I cannot imagine she’d ever come back here.”
The women maintained an impassive, almost uninterested demeanor during the brief time he spoke about the lady from the east. Sister Luke, for one, thought he regretted that Sister Elisabeth was no longer able to answer his questions. Her heart pounded, and breathing became difficult, but with great poise, she asked the bishop if there was anything more he cared to ask.
“No thank you, Sister Luke. Let me thank you and the good nuns for hosting me while dispossessed of my own home. I wish you all well, indeed, as you raise the funds to sustain yourselves.” The bishop eyed Sister Luke carefully, then rose from the table, gave the nuns a slight bow of thanks, and proceeded to his waiting horse for the short ride to a better bed.
…
Captain Tomori and Franciszek Montowski rode their horses into the large square fronting Krosno Castle’s imposing entrance. In the early afternoon quiet, little else was happening. A few merchants were speaking in low voices and there was the idle noisemaking of little children, but the two horsemen turned heads.
Tomori noticed that many of the townspeople looked at them warily, no doubt curious about tunics of different markings than those ordinarily seen in the Duchy of Glogau. Surely, they eyed the very tall man in garb far better than that of a peasant, but not as finely spun as that of a knight or wealthy merchant. The Hungarian smiled as he saw them pointing at Franciszek’s large head covered with a shock of yellow hair.
The riders carried themselves as if returning to their own castle. Tomori shouted for the gate to be raised for him.
“Who comes!” demanded the guardsman at the gate.
“Janos Tomori from the King of Hungary,” the knight expressed with a confidence he did not completely feel.
The heavy iron portcullis rumbled off the ground as if by invisible hands, but the heavy chain clanking against itself drowned out all other noises. Tomori noticed every detail.
Once inside, they were led, first, to Sir Ortwinus Esel, who challenged them to state the purpose of their visit. In return, Tomori demanded to see the duke.
Sir Ortwinus, apparently considering their request, displayed a welcoming demeanor. “The duke?” he asked finally, confusion in his voice.
Tomori wondered if there was something wrong with the man.
Big Franciszek could not help himself. Despite instructions to be silent, he mustered his best voice and said, “Yes, Duke Zygmunt, of course.”
“Of course.” Sir Ortwinus responded with a smile, as if a burden had been lifted from him, and at once, he turned, leading them deeper inside the walls of the fortress.
…
Madrosh and Lady Irina had come off the parapet and were halfway down when she grasped her belly, telling the priest she felt dizzy. Asking Velka, who was coming up toward them, to lead Lady Irina to her chambers—with Yip close behind—Madrosh then hurried toward the great hall where he knew Duke Zygmunt and the Margrave, King Wenceslas, were in quiet, private, and earnest discussion.
Taking his usual position behind his Polish master, Madrosh listened as the clatter of Ortwinus Esel’s boots joined with the clang of his scabbard against the light armor he wore. Their concentration broken, the nobles looked up at him with a mix of amusement and annoyance. Madrosh observed carefully as the appearance of the men they had seen from above portended something very unexpected.
Bending low, Sir Ortwinus said, “Two men say they’re from the King of Hungary, and the big one spoke in Polish, My Lords. They asked for you, Duke Zygmunt.”
The margrave glanced at the duke, a question in the lift of his eyebrow, and the duke nodded in assent.
Sir Ortwinus beckoned the intruders who had been kept waiting at the entrance to the hall.
“Just what is it!” spoke Duke Zygmunt, making his demand with force, yet respect, and completely ignoring the surprising presence of his own minion.
Captain Tomori bowed, not deeply, but enough to show respect in return. “The King, Louis of Hungary and of Poland,” he added with emphasis, “sends his compliments and requests a private audience with Duke Zygmunt.” He did not acknowledge the man seated with the duke.
Madrosh bent to his master and they conferred in low tones. Duke Zygmunt, a guest at Krosno, chose not to introduced either his royal companion or Madrosh, and waved everyone else away.
“You have it. Speak, Captain Tomori,” the duke said at last. “What is it that King Louis could want of me?”
“Duke Zygmunt,” he began, speaking in halting Polish, “King Louis would be most pleased to know that you are here at Krosno,” he said.
It was clear to Madrosh that no one would fully understand the Hungarian, and Tomori’s presence augured a conversation not to misunderstand. Gently, he put his hand on the duke’s shoulder and once more, whispered a few words. At once, Duke Zygmunt signaled for an interpreter, apparently not trusting the niceties to the oaf, Franciszek.
When one of Wenceslaus’s men appeared, the duke said, “We may do without the pleasantries, Captain.”
“As a Pole, and as a subject of His Majesty’s, he would want to believe your loyalty to him supreme. That said, Excellency, you should know that the king has a plan to secure a water route to the Baltic.”
The interpreter’s presence gave everyone the opportunity to absorb the words of the other.
“And so?” Duke Zygmunt asked, glancing at his companion at the same time.
“And so the king expects your unequivocal support in winning control of the Oder and its military strongholds.”
Duke Zygmunt and the margrave sat stone faced. Madrosh remained impassive to the man’s words, as he was well aware the margrave understood Polish. When Tomori paused, Zygmunt chose not to respond immediately. Instead, he turned his head, slowly, to look directly at Tomori’s accomplice. “And you, Franciszek Montowski, am I looking at a dead man? Why are you here? And with Captain Tomori?”
Madrosh could see that Tomori was taken aback at the duke’s tone and apparent contempt for Franciszek. Too, he wondered if Tomori took the duke’s companion to be someone in the duke’s service.
“D-duke Zygmunt,” Franciszek stammered, “we were set upon in the woods by robbers who killed the soldiers you sent with us. Tomasz and I killed our attackers, Sire, and we could have run but chose to rejoin you and show our true loyalty.”
“I’m beginning to understand your true loyalty,” the duke responded evenly, the irony apparently lost on his visitors.
Taking no notice of the duke’s irony, he said, “Sire, Tomasz has something of importance to tell you, something that will change your view of us when…”
Tomori cut him off, apparently having concluded things were not going well.
Whether it was the difficulty of language or the demeanor of the conferees, Madrosh could not fathom. What he could understand was that Tomori made a very wrong assumption about the man seated at the duke’s side.
Although Tomori attempted to speak in Duke Zygmunt’s native tongue, it was the interpreter who made the meaning clear. “Sire,” he began, his voice laced with respect, “we found your two men in the woods. They were on their way here, we believe. We chose this one to come now, believing you would recognize him and not think us an enemy. In truth, Sire, I apologize for this man’s brash manners.”
“Brash isn’t the word,” the duke responded slowly. “Please get to it, Cap
tain Tomori. What is it you want of me?”
“Sire, we understand,” Tomori said as if speaking with a conspirator. Nodding at Franciszek, he continued. “You have enough men for control here. As a subject of His Majesty the King, you are to join our forces and take command of Castle Krosno for Hungary,” he said, then added, belatedly, “…and for Poland.”
Madrosh could not believe Tomori would seek Zygmunt’s aid in overthrowing control of a Teutonic castle in which they were guests. It seemed the duke wished to draw him out.
“Control? What does that mean, exactly?” he inquired further, equally careful not to glance at the margrave immediately to his side. The fingers of one hand found the ring on a finger of the other and began to turn it round and round.
“You, Sire, would allow our troops to enter the fortress and in an act of fealty, submit to the King’s personal representative on this expedition, Sir Bela Kinizsi.” He waited until the interpreter repeated his words to the duke.
“Submit? Hmmm. I think I understand what you mean. As a loyal subject, I must consider my duties to Wielko Polska and my king!”
Tomori beamed with pleasure at the duke’s response. “Bardzo dobrze—very good, Sire!”
“I bow to your counsel, Tomori,” the duke said slowly, his mind working. “You must give me time to quietly secure the castle and the town for you. Why should Sir Bela’s men shed blood unnecessarily? Let me think about this for a bit,” he said as he looked down at his hands and twirled the ring on his finger. Finally, he grasped it in two fingers, looked up, and said, “Yes, in three days’ time, with trumpets sounding, your entire force will be welcomed into Krosno.”
The interpreter’s words evinced a broad smile. “That will be most excellent, Sire.”
Madrosh watched Brandenburg’s margrave intently. Earlier, he thought the margrave ready to explode, but now, the man seemed to relish the drama unfolding. The margrave kept his silence, a very slight smile arcing his lips.
“Oh, Tomori, when you return, I would be most pleased to see Franciszek Montowski and the other brash one, Tomasz Wodowicz, in a place of prominence amongst your troops. They should be properly acknowledged for service to me and King Louis.”
Tomori beamed. “As you wish, Sire.”
…
At the Hungarian captain’s departure, a tense silence enveloped the chamber. Afternoon shadows lengthened, and the hounds stirred in their soft spreads of straw along the wall. Tan, with droopy ears and lips, they raised their heads, fixing their stares. One stood, walked to a corner, and relieved himself, but no one paid attention to the animals. Still standing, Madrosh knew it was not his place to break the silence.
Duke Zygmunt turned to his host and said, “Sire, this must surely have sounded strange to you.”
“To say the least.” The margrave’s tone was even, expectant, the thin smile still on his lips.
“Despite what Tomori thinks—and will carry back to Sir Bela Kinizsi—it is to you I have pledged my loyalty in this matter.” Zygmunt noticed he was turning the ring on his finger. He made himself stop.
Incredulous, the Margrave and King, Wenceslas, interrupted Duke Zygmunt’s next words. “My dear Duke, I will hear your words, most certainly, or battle you to the death right here in this hall, but first, explain to me why you are willing to risk all in an act of disloyalty to your king.”
“In spite of the fact that he is the King of Poland by agreement with Kazimierz Wielki, Louis is no king to true Poles. We are not Hungarians. We are Poles!” All this, he said simply but not without passion. Behind his master, Madrosh nodded in firm agreement.
“And neither are you Teutons, Zygmunt,” noted the margrave, surprisingly affable, using his companion’s given name without his title for the first time.
“True enough, Sire Wenceslas, but at present, the bonds between us are not dripping in Polish blood.”
The margrave sat silent for a moment, acknowledging the truth of Zygmunt’s words. “Evidently, you have a plan?” His smile was broader, one of warmth for a friend.
…
Within hours of the strange visit by the Hungarian, there was little else but hurry and bustle as the men and women of Krosno Castle began preparations for what was to come. No one was told much, but each group of laborers was given a single task to accomplish.
A cadre of Castle Krosno’s defenders made ready an official welcome at the foot of the moat bridge. Their role would be important but brief. Others polished their armor and readied their finery while still others focused their entire labors on the large courtyard just inside the heavy gates.
Few of the men at Castle Krosno belonged to its keeper, the Margrave of Glogau. It fell, therefore, to soldiers in liege to a Polish nobleman and the neighboring Margrave of Brandenburg to satisfy the Hungarian’s demand.
…
The growing warmth of early June made the unshaded parapets an ideal place for Irina to enjoy the balmy air while waiting to discuss with Madrosh the mysteries of their existence. The skies were blue and dry, making the hours she and Madrosh spent together all the more pleasant.
Irina’s thoughts drifted to the image of the young squire, Jan Brezchwa. Her contacts with him were usually fleeting, about some task or duty, but they seemed more and more cordial, their voices to each other less impersonal and not at all brusque, as when they first met. Yet my loyalty is to Berek—I cannot think of anyone else.
When Madrosh made his appearance, his demeanor was somber, and Irina did not know what to make of him. She had never seen him so discomfited.
“Madrosh, what has transpired that affects you so?”
“I should not say, My Lady,” he said, looking away, “but you should be prepared for whatever might come. You need not be concerned for your safety. Duke Zygmunt has a devilish plan, the outcome of which the Hungarians will not have time to remember.” He stared into the distance.
Though Irina blanched at his words, she had come to trust him. “Devilish, you say?” Seeing no reaction, she added, “I will not press you on it if you keep me interested in good and evil,” she said, trying to keep concern from her voice. What will Duke Zygmunt do?
Madrosh sighed. “Yes, I suppose it is.” He turned to her. “Let’s talk about the good Augustine, then, and the opposites of good and evil.”
It was amazing to her how he could change in an instant. No wonder the duke prizes him as his counselor.
Madrosh warmed to his subject. “The question often arises, Lady Irina, if God knows that evils will occur, is he God? If God does not know, how can he be God? And if he knows and does nothing, is he a God without power? Or an uncaring God? And if he has no power or does not use it, how, too, can he be God?”
Madrosh had wasted no time laying out the challenges to the very essence of the Creator. Irina nearly regretted having asked the question. “You are making me dizzy, Madrosh!”
“I apologize, My Lady. Free will can be dizzying. You see, it is not God who does and permits evil, it is man. When you lived on the farm and your mother left butter and sugar on the table, she probably told you not to touch it. She knew, however, that you would be tempted, and that when she was not looking, you might take a taste with your finger.”
Irina started to laugh.
Madrosh chuckled. “Do you remember, Irina? Whether you tasted it or not, your mother did not make either choice for you.” He paused. “God knows about men’s deeds, but he does not make their choices for them, and we earnestly believe God will hold them accountable for what they do! Augustine further believed that once one knows the truth, one is responsible for the truth.”
Irina interrupted. “Forgive me, Madrosh, if I am speaking sinfully, but what does God think of Bishop Tirasewicz?”
Madrosh laughed heartily. “I do not know what God thinks of him, my child, but Augustine gave us some thoughts on this as well. He believed tha
t it is Christ only who determines whether a sacrament is valid. That means that when our bishop performs a baptism or a marriage, or forgives someone’s sins in Christ’s name, his personal behaviors, as we may judge them, are separate from the acts he performs on Christ’s behalf.” After a moment of reflection, he added, “That is not an easy garment to don, is it? It is a simple reminder for us that while we may make our own judgments about someone, in the end, it is solely the judgment of God that matters.”
“Just like Father Rudzenski?” she asked, but did not wait for an answer. “And in the end,” she taunted Madrosh, “is man judged good or evil?”
The priest nodded, pensive. “The ancients believed that man is intrinsically good—that all natures are created by God and therefore could not be evil in themselves. There are some who think God may have created Adam and Eve as innocents, as intrinsically good, but because of their sin, we are born with varying degrees of good and evil in us—you’ll remember we spoke of this earlier.”
“Intrinsic?”
“It means the very core of something. Deep inside an apple, the very center of it has the seeds for another of the same, and those seeds have within them the power to grow an apple tree that produces apples, sweet or sour—the vegetative soul, remember? What’s in the heart or core of the apple is not what we see by its skin, but it is what makes the apple what it is. Underneath, where you cannot see or touch, is this essence—our nature.
“Think about it this way,” he went on. “If man, king or servant, is born with evil in his soul but overcomes it by his free will, then he will become the person we may not want to judge harshly. If a man overcomes his evil desires and seeks what is good, is that not what God wants?
“What about someone who seems by nature a good person?”
“God may judge such a person on a different plane. One has to think that a person who has not been tempted by sin cannot claim virtue.”
“I see.”
“Think about man from our earliest history. Have his urges been to benign behaviors or have they tended toward the evils of greed, covetousness, lust, and murder? God’s gift to Moses of the Commandments helped to civilize our souls. God’s gift to us of his Son helps to educate our souls to choose what is good.”
Irina Page 20
