He swallowed hard. There was no way, he knew with a cold finality, that Duke Zygmunt would ever believe him, would ever take him back, no matter what he might say about the two women pretending to be a lady and her servant. He knew it when he splashed his face with frigid water early that morning and tried to put his concerns aside, allowing arrogance to overpower reason. But when he looked at his hands they couldn’t stop shaking.
Despite his innate bravado, Tomasz’s voice had become nervous and uncertain. Franciszek looked at him, frowning and wondering. Incredibly, Tomasz finally concluded—laughing out loud when he realized it—Franciszek had been right. Running to Poznan would have been the smartest thing they could have done. He now knew Zygmunt would have been gone for at least a year and, with luck, might never be coming back. In Poznan, he could have lived near his father and made a life somehow.
Tomasz calmed himself, and as they joined the Hungarian formation and rode toward Krosno, he knew that he had to escape before meeting face-to-face with Duke Zygmunt. Just that prospect renewed his shivering on the warm June morning. Bile climbed to his throat. Whatever opportunity arose, he knew he’d have to take it, no matter what the risk.
Crossing the river and moving through the woods was an orderly, controlled affair, and despite the low fog, there was no chance to break from the formation of twos. Any of the fifty pairs of armed men would ride him down and kill him if he jerked the reins of his horse left or right. Sir Bela and Captain Tomori kept him hemmed in like a garment too tight around the neck. His nerves jangled all the more as they rode closer to Krosno and a fate he did not want to imagine.
Within two hours, the troupe reached Krosno’s town plaza, the clomp of horses’ feet on the cobblestones intimidating the small party waiting at the moat bridge. Townspeople had gathered to gawk. Tomasz’s eyes darted everywhere, but no escape presented itself.
They stopped several feet short of the rather plump fellow waiting there to greet them. He appeared more the jester than the general, and he waited for the cascade of sound from the arrivals to come to some quiet. Then he spoke.
“I am Sir Ortwinus Esel and on behalf of the Duke of Poznan, Zygmunt and the Margrave of Glogau, whose duchy you visit, I extend their greetings and welcome to you, Sir Bela Kinizsi, Captain Tomori, and the soldiers of King Louis of Hungary!”
His face glowing with the words he heard, Sir Bela bowed in acknowledgement, and Captain Tomori followed his lead. Sir Bela spoke for them all: “We are honored to represent his Highness, Louis of Hungary, on Teuton soil and look forward to a long association with Krosno Castle and its people.”
Just behind the parade’s head, Tomasz was in full panic. He watched the plump Ortwinus bow in welcome, and apparently following a protocol, make a grand gesture signifying that the guests should ride ahead.
At that moment, the four trumpeters, in a line but a few feet away, issued a further welcoming blast that pierced the misty air.
Sir Bela and his men had not anticipated the blare of the trumpets. Startled, the horses bucked and whinnied, their hooves climbing high in the air. When the first horses began their fearful dance, many horses behind them joined in the chaos, so much so that the men and their mounts in the first dozen ranks had great difficulty maintaining order. What had been a neat column of two’s was now bedlam in the mist. Ranks broke and men shouted commands to their horses.
Tomasz saw his chance, his one and only chance.
…
From atop the castle wall, Madrosh, Lady Irina, and all the duke’s soldiers stationed there were taking in the light pageantry somewhat comically and pompously carried out by Sir Ortwinus. When the trumpets sounded their overwhelming blast, Irina heard several onlookers begin to chuckle at the embarrassed Hungarians.
Irina could not laugh. As they watched, Irina pointed and tried to cry out, but her voice died in her throat. She caught Madrosh’s attention, and at once, he leaned forward to study the melee below. When she could speak, she said, “See him? It is Tomasz.” As if there were no other riders there, she focused fully on Tomasz the Terrible as he pulled his reins sharply to his right and bolted into the grey shroud that still lingered. She shouted in a most unladylike manner, pointing at the man and horse galloping toward the long, narrow bridge across the river. Her voice, and the man’s escape, were lost in the ruckus below.
Irina then fixed her eyes on the two men in the lead. As they strained to control their mounts, they did not realize what had happened behind them. When the horsemen regained hold of their reins, but barely, their animals sprung forward with even more energy. The Hungarians bolted past the immobile Ortwinus. Across the moat bridge and through the castle gate they clattered, Franciszek in his place amongst them.
Irina and Madrosh looked down in both fascination and horror. Yip was so agitated, Irina grabbed him by the collar and held him as best she could. As she did so, she wrestled with the emotions welling up inside her.
She had begun to feel at ease with the world as it was after St. Stephen’s. When Tomasz and Franciszek were led away, she was certain they would face a horrible death, and that thought gave her some sense of satisfaction. She held that cold comfort until three days earlier, when Big Franciszek reappeared and it became known Tomasz the Terrible was yet alive.
At Krosno, either one of them would present a deadly danger to Irina and Velka. She clutched her belly to protect the baby she was carrying. Hers was not just any child. It was one with Jewish blood, soon to be born to a world where death and horror came more often to Jews merely because they existed. Would the duke believe what Franciszek might say about me?
With anger in her voice, she turned to Madrosh and demanded, “Will that man never meet God?”
Madrosh looked back at her, said nothing, but on his face there was a most mournful expression.
As she spoke the words, Yip broke loose and bounded from the parapet. She called to him, but in a flash, he disappeared down the narrow stone steps.
Chapter IX
1378
Sir Bela smiled as he rode through the gate with anticipation of so easy a first victory on the Baltic campaign. Under the broad stone arch of Krosno Castle he rode with his one hundred heavily armed men, and what an impression they had made. It was majestic, he thought.
Soon he would exult to King Louis as his messenger was sent forth with news the first fortress west of the Oder was his. What was more, the traitor, Zygmunt Sokorski, would—in the end—be executed and all his lands and titles forfeited to the king. By two hours past noon, he guessed, his messenger and two soldiers would make a fast ride toward the homeland.
When the last of his men completed their entry into the vast Krosno courtyard, the clank of the portcullis chains filled the air as it dropped with a heavy thud. Sir Bela was at once struck by what he saw—and what he didn’t see. No one was there to greet them. All openings on the lower levels were shuttered. The quiet was eerie. No welcoming crowd. No birds singing. Only a single dog’s menacing bark broke the stillness.
At the very least, he expected Duke Zygmunt to personally welcome the king’s emissary. Uneasily, the horses pranced in the hay, gnawing what they could. Sir Bela turned to another noise, that of the inner gates swinging shut on great iron hinges.
…
In the second-level galleries some twenty feet above the courtyard, soldiers of Zygmunt and Wenceslas ringed the inner ramparts, their polished armor and weaponry glinting in the brightening sun.
From her perch higher up, Irina watched in fascination as the Hungarians looked at each other, their horses a-skitter. She wondered where Yip had gone, and hadn’t noticed the duke and the margrave had taken positions a few paces from where she and Madrosh stood. Irina stared at the nobles, her eyes wide seeing they were not down below greeting their Hungarian guests. Why are they up here?
Instinctively, Irina leaned closer to Madrosh, grasping his arm. She had no
t noticed that her breathing had stopped, and in an unconscious act, had focused all her attention on the men there with her as well as those penned below. Just as the fog had blanketed the ground, a dread crept over her. Her lungs heaved, frantic for air.
Zygmunt’s voice boomed out, “Welcome, Sir Bela. The Margrave of Brandenburg and I tender our regrets that we were not in the courtyard to receive you personally.”
“The Margrave of Brandenburg? What are you doing, Zygmunt? Do you realize you are insulting your king? Do you understand what will happen to you and your estates in Poznan when King Louis hears of this?”
“Yes, I do, Sir Bela. I informed Captain Tomori I was a Pole, not a Hungarian. And your king, Sire,” he said, pausing, “will never hear of our meeting.”
At that moment, Zygmunt raised his arm in a command signal and dropped it. An archer to Zygmunt’s left shot an arrow that dug into the ground just in front of Sir Bela’s horse. It had not been the bowman’s intent to strike soldier or horse. His task had been simpler, Irina realized. It was to shoot a flaming arrow into the hay.
She could see the Hungarians were confused by what was happening, but the shooter had mastery of his weapon. Smoke curled into the air. In a moment, a dozen fiery arrows injected themselves into the courtyard’s yellow carpet, flames sucking on the hay.
“Trample them out! Fix your bows! Shoot at will! Aim for them!” Sir Bela shouted, pointing at Zygmunt and Wenceslas.
Irina could see Franciszek’s head shifting from side to side, apparently looking for Tomasz. He appeared ready to spur his horse in any direction. Through the spreading smoke, the perspiration of fear matting his yellow hair to his head was easily visible.
Franciszek called for Tomasz. He looked upward and despite the distance, his steady, dumb eyes found Irina’s on high.
She returned his glare. Unlike in another courtyard not long before, this time he sought only pity. She gave none. From nowhere, a dog appeared and nipped at the shanks of Franciszek’s horse, snarling without relent.
“Yip!” Irina called to her beloved guardian. Her voice bounced off the stone walls of the castle. “Yip, come back!” She was desperate, but the dog paid her no heed. Yip bayed, barked, and bedeviled Franciszek’s horse until it reared in the air and threw its rider onto the burning floor. Yip leapt upon his prey and went for Franciszek’s throat.
Arrows rained upon the Hungarians, each hitting a satisfactory target: man, horse, or hay. Through the growing smoke, the horses took fright and tried to run. There was no place for them to go. Riders lost control of their animals, falling to earth only to be crushed by others before being set alight. Soon, the small flames grew into a bonfire, licking, then consuming pennants, horse blankets, tunics, hair, and flesh.
Irina put her hands to her mouth and tried to scream out again, but could not. She saw her beloved sheepdog on Franciszek as the man struggled with the dog and the flames washing over him. Soon, they were engulfed. Tears froze in the corners of her eyes. She could not move or speak.
Irina turned and stared at Zygmunt in revulsion as he and Wenceslas watched men and horses die a most gruesome death. She could see in their eyes that these men clearly enjoyed the glimpse of hell before them. They held the same gleam of excitement she had seen from another holocaust. In a courtyard in Poznan.
Within a few minutes, the horses ceased their cries, their riders already having lost their own voices. The fire had not been long burning, but the stench of scorched flesh and emptied bowels soon became unbearable. The conflagration slowly subsided, and after a long while, during which no one moved a step, the thick, black smoke drifted upward, like a pitiful, dark prayer. Everyone with the courage to look saw empty eye sockets staring heavenward in reproach. From the watchers above, there came only a funereal disquiet.
Irina’s hand was on her heart, her emotions running from horror and revulsion to satisfaction and justice rendered. She wanted to vomit but refused to let herself do so. This day recalled too vividly for her the fate of the Joselewicz family, and it frightened her that the looks on the faces of the men controlling these events were not unlike those on that earlier, terrible night. In Duke Zygmunt she saw something she knew was there but did not want to see.
She began to moan with great, heavy spasms, her whole being shaking. First Berek and her Joselewicz family. Now Yip. He’d had his revenge. Love for her and hate for her enemy had determined his fate. Finally, her tears ran freely and she didn’t care that her lords, her hosts, were watching her.
Irina knew that in war, cruelty was commonplace, but there was something dishonorable about what she had just witnessed. Even so, emotion triumphed over more sensible instincts. Though Madrosh taught her not to make judgments about others, she was pleased that Franciszek had died with all the brutality she thought he deserved. She stopped her tears, swearing to herself she would mourn for Yip, but no others who died this day.
Madrosh held her, and as if divining her thoughts, whispered hoarsely, but gently, “Remember to pray for the souls in hell, Irina.”
She turned to him. Coughing through the wisps of smoke, Irina choked out words she wanted to shout but could only whisper. “Yet one man has escaped this hell, Madrosh!” She collapsed.
When she fell, it was not into the arms of her teacher, but into those of a patient, waiting squire, Jan Brezchwa.
…
For nearly an hour, Tomasz spurred his horse to a full gallop, and dared not look back. Even the wind against his face and chest could not dry the sweat born of fear. Having crossed the Oder to the eastern shore, he rode straight over the plain, and only upon reaching a stand of birches did he turn to check behind him.
In the distance, he saw a large black cloud rising from the castle, and the very sight made him smile, but because Sir Bela would likely send riders after him, he turned eastward once more and drove himself deeper into the thick tree line. He had no idea how far he had gone, but his horse could go no further without water and rest.
Surrounded by oak, birch, and elm, he dismounted onto a pair of wobbly legs. He let himself fall next to a fast stream where he and his horse quenched themselves in the cool water, and when his breathing returned to something akin to normalcy, he lay back, staring at the sky through the green canopy. He surprised himself by laughing out loud, but then no one could possibly hear him. “They’re all dead! That bastard Duke Zygmunt and his pet bitch—they’re all dead, and I don’t care that the Hungarians did it to them!” Saying the words aloud made it all seem more real.
“Hah!” His guffaws went on, and he rolled onto his side in laughter. Ah, lucky Franciszek, he thought. He was there for all the fun. Perhaps some good had come of this, after all. He would miss having Franciszek around, but he had no doubt his man would find a place for himself in Sir Bela’s service. After a few minutes, he thought he heard horses, but it was merely his imagination.
The thought of capture made him rise and take to his horse for another hour or so before he halted in a sunny glade where both could water and he could nap. Closing his eyes, he took a hard look at his circumstances, but in truth, he had no plan because he had never expected to survive Krosno Castle.
Franciszek had been right after all. It would have been foolish to think he could return to the duke’s good graces and enjoy revenge upon the two impostors who had accused him. His desire for vengeance had overridden good reason. He had, indeed, turned over all of the goods he’d taken from the Joselewicz house—and from the twenty-odd other Jewish homes and shops he and Franciszek had pillaged that night! He was guilty of many things, but never of disobedience to the duke’s demands.
It made him angry still to think that the jewelry and trinkets in Franciszek’s pocket had likely come from the Joselewicz house. It was treasure never once in his possession, yet it brought him a death sentence. As he drifted into unconsciousness, he satisfied himself on two counts. There was no reason to sp
end time thinking about what the two girls had taken for themselves. It must have been a great deal to give them their new life—and at Krosno Castle, their sudden death. He giggled at the thought of it. Second, Poznan would be his next destination. On his way, he’d seek food and rest at the one safe place he knew.
…
Codes of honor were to be respected. In battling one’s enemies, a knight gave his opponent a fair contest. Exceptions to the rules of engagement were few and rare. Two reasons to force such an exception were convenience and secrecy. If no one knew a knight broke the rules, then the matter might deserve no further judgment.
Duke Zygmunt felt his conscience bore no extra weight because of the day’s events. Had the Hungarians prevailed his life would have been forfeit—of that, there was little doubt. The Hungarians were quick, clever, and cruel, and he harbored no feelings of dishonor. Indeed, he carried feelings of relief and satisfaction.
From his vantage point, he could no more have submitted himself, a proud Polish noble, to his nation’s ancient nemesis than he could have disavowed his church. Nobility was one thing. Protecting one’s future was another. He had no choice but to annihilate the Hungarians once he committed to link battle arms with Wenceslas and the Teutons. Zygmunt did not know whether he’d see his native Poland again in his lifetime, but he did not want his name ever to be spoken by Poles as a betrayer of his homeland and his people.
At the evening meal, Duke Zygmunt and Margrave Wenceslas dined in an awkward silence, but in the full certainty that by the day’s action, a serious threat had been thwarted. The margrave finally spoke. “And so, Duke Zygmunt, I and the Duchy of Brandenburg are everlastingly in your debt. How shall I repay the succor you have so freely rendered on my behalf?”
Zygmunt bowed in gracious acknowledgment of the day’s most obvious outcome. “Your Highness, there is no need. We share borders and a love of peace between us.”
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