Irina

by Philip Warren

  After a pensive moment, the king said, “That is all true, Zygmunt, but my gratitude must go beyond a word or two. It is personal with me, and I do not like to be indebted to anyone. For all that you have done, you and your entourage shall be under my care and protection as we journey to Paris.”

  “Ah, Your Highness, that is most gracious and generous of you.”

  “It is the least I can do. We will have a fine time together and further bind our relationship. I already have in mind a plan that will include a rest at Tangermunde, about three days’ journey west of Berlin. It will be good, I think, for the women and, in particular, the one with child to take their rest for a few days before we go on to Paris.”

  “In truth, Your Majesty, my original plan of travel was to Brandenburg, where I had hoped you and I might meet to discuss matters of mutual interest. However,” Zygmunt paused, smiling, and throwing up his arms in a gesture of surrender to fate, “what has occurred could not have served us better. And so, Your Majesty, it will be I who is in your debt.” He bowed his head slightly and brought it up again with a broad smile.

  In the beginning, when the invitation to visit Paris had arrived and the meeting with Wenceslas arranged, Zygmunt wanted merely to forge a friendly alliance with his neighbor to the west. When the Hungarians presented themselves, they brought with them an opportunity Zygmunt could not let pass. It was the chance to secure his future, and that of the Duchy of Poznan. Yet it was this second objective that, ironically, was now in jeopardy.

  King Wenceslas gazed at him and said, “You smile, and yet there is concern in your face. What troubles you?”

  “My dear ally,” he addressed the king, “I must also seek your counsel on how I might deal with the possible, though distant consequences of my act in your defense this day. Not one of Sir Bela’s men escaped, and so we do not know what Louis will conclude when he does not hear from his expedition. We must give incentive to Ortwinus Esel and the Margrave of Glogau never to speak of what occurred here.

  “Also, gracious Wenceslas, I would not want to return to my native Poznan a year or more hence only to be marched to the axe man’s block. I would want to ensure the security of my family and my duchy in the years to come. What advice might you render to help me achieve the peace for which I long, and freedom from the Hungarians, Your Grace?”

  Wenceslas hesitated. “Let me ponder this most interesting problem, Zygmunt. In the meantime, let us raise our goblets to a military victory with no loss of men to our side, and to an uneventful expedition to Tangermunde!”

  …

  Jerzy Andrezski made a brief stop at the convent to inform Sister Luke he would be leaving the city for a time. His newest associates, Pawel Tokasz and Jan Wodowicz, stood by, both impatient to head west toward the edge of Wielko Polska and the forests of Silesia.

  “Why are you leaving Poznan, Pan Andrezski?” the young Mother Superior asked.

  “To explore a better future, Sister.”

  “I thought you began a good business here.”

  “Yes, Sister, I thought so, too,” he answered in both gratitude and humility, “but it will not sustain us, and I want to provide for you and the other nuns here, and for the little angel who gave me to drink when I had a great thirst.”

  Sister Luke smiled. “Dear friend, we will be grateful for whatever you do for us, but you have given us bounteous thanks many times over.”

  At the sound of his voice, Zuzanna ran into the room and hugged Andrezski’s leg, her tiny arms barely able to circumnavigate the big man’s thigh. “Pan Jerzy, I missed you! When will you take me with you?”

  “Someday, Zuzanna, someday. That is, if you don’t join the convent and become like Sister Luke,” he said, laughing and picking her up in the air.

  The nun smiled and recaptured her charge. “First, you must grow a bit, Zuzanna!”

  “Yes, and then, Pan Jerzy, you will take me to see my sister, Irina!”

  …

  Two full days of hard labor by the townspeople and men of the castle were necessary to remove the remains of the funeral pyre to a great pit north of the castle.

  A brilliantly sunny day greeted Wenceslas of Brandenburg and the Duke of Poznan as they preceded their large entourage out of Krosno Castle down to the river’s edge. There, all of the men of noble rank and their squires, as well as all of the women and their attendants, boarded the barges tied up along the banks. In the shadow of the bridge they had crossed many days earlier, the barges were released from their moorings, and they began their drift with the river’s flow, ever northward toward a distant sea. Meanwhile, most of the troops and all the horses and carts would make speed overland and meet them in Frankfort an der Oder.

  “And a good morning to you, My Lady,” Madrosh said.

  “Indeed,” spoke Duke Zygmunt, who joined them. “How are you faring, my dear?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “I trust we will all be more careful on the waters than when we arrived at Krosno, nie?”

  “Most certainly, My Lord,” Madrosh said, answering for both.

  “Well, at least we will not have them to concern us,” he said, gesturing toward the place along the river where the charred remains of the Hungarian invasion force had been interred. “They are all safely in eternity,” he added with a slight smile on his lips.

  “Not all, Your Grace,” Irina said, but immediately wished she hadn’t. Having spoken and seeing the query etched on the duke’s countenance, she had no choice but to go on. “Perhaps you weren’t able to notice, but Tomasz Wodowicz did not die with them. Father Madrosh and I could see from the parapets that he rode off when the trumpets first blasted, and no one rode after him.” All color drained from the duke’s countenance

  “Then there is someone left alive who…” He stopped short, as if he had no more breath for words.

  Irina could see the duke’s entire demeanor had changed in an instant. From a smug satisfaction there came something else. Was it fear?

  Duke Sokorski stared blankly at Irina and Madrosh, but could find no words. With a whisper, he said, “Excuse me,” and walked slowly to the front of the barge.

  Irina and Madrosh exchanged glances.

  “I hadn’t thought to tell him,” Madrosh said. “I’m so sorry it fell to you, my dear.”

  “No matter, Madrosh. Perhaps I learned something, but it is too disturbing to think about now.”

  Turning her vision to the present, Irina was pleased to see that Jan Brezchwa had somehow managed to be on her barge, within earshot, as if waiting to be summoned. They began to exchange more than greetings, and while their brief conversations were, to Irina, charming, they did not discuss the weighty topics she and Madrosh had thus far chosen.

  What she and Jan spoke about Irina could never seem to remember. Like the river beneath them, their talks flowed and turned as did the beautiful shorelines on either side. It didn’t seem to matter what their conversations entailed. They were exactly what Irina needed to help blur the horrific events so recently refreshed in her memory.

  All the while, Madrosh stayed close by, never interrupting, never breaking their growing bond. He smiled all the while, his broad cape billowing in the breeze almost like a shielding cocoon allowing the young people to deepen their acquaintance without distraction. He enjoyed the role of grand protector.

  The river itself turned sharply west some distance above Krosno, and the passengers could hear the boatmen chattering in a German dialect about the city ahead of them. Madrosh explained that Frankfort, already a member of the Hanseatic League, dominated trade between Stettin and Breslau. They would overnight there, then pass by the little village of Berlin before reaching the favorite fortress of the Emperor Charles and his son Wenceslas. Tangermunde, it was said, would be a great place for rest, refreshment, and final preparation for the long journey west.

  …

  Having hear
d nothing from the parish priests in and around Poznan, Bishop Tirasewicz decided brooding over the mystery was an empty exercise. To quench his curiosity, he concocted a plan to serve his purpose well. A journey to the east would be in order. Oh, not for himself, of course. Such journeys could be perilous—especially if plague continued to lurk there.

  Over several days, he observed his staff closely, in search of one who could be trusted with the delicate mission of a visit to the Bishop of Gniezno. Having made the best choice, and barring an unforeseen event, Antony Tirasewicz would have the answer to his question in a matter of weeks.

  To his private audience chamber, he summoned young Father Ryzard Michalski and provided, without much in the way of explanation, the reasons for a sojourn to Gniezno, sulla rosa et sub rosa, a mission best kept secret.

  …

  Toward Poland’s western woods, Jerzy Andrezski, Pawel Tokasz, and Jan Wodowicz rode from Poznan in spirited anticipation. Jerzy was pleased that Tokasz had decided to leave his farm in search of something better, and his family did not object since much of the planting had been done and he could be spared for a time.

  Andrezski wasn’t so sure about his feelings for Jan Wodowicz, who subtly let them know that qualities such as loyalty and honesty were distinctly relative. They knew, however, that the old man’s cooperation might be necessary for the success of their venture.

  They made the trip in a few long days, traversing the roads and faint forest tracks with the speed that only three unencumbered men could achieve. What they saw along the way served to confirm what they already believed. The plague’s visitation had been just as severe in the outlying villages—like Wozna, where they stopped briefly—as it had been in the city, and they encountered few people, fewer still who welcomed contact with strangers.

  Arriving at St. Stephen’s at mid-day, Jerzy was astonished to learn that none of the monks there had been touched by the plague, according to a surprised but welcoming Father Kaminski. “And what brings you three so far into the forest to this place of God?”

  “Good Father,” Andrezski began, “we come in search of knowledge and resource, but perhaps not of the kind you might imagine.”

  “I have heard of you and your generosity, Pan Andrezski. You have my ear.”

  Jan Wodowicz spoke up impatiently. “Father Abbot,” he began, “many years ago, there was a man who worked in Poznan with the Italians from Venice.” He caught his breath. “They made the glass for Sts. Peter and Paul Cathedral, but this man left Poznan shortly afterward, when the Great Mortality made its first visit there.”

  “And what does that have to do with St. Stephen’s?”

  “That man became a monk, Father, but I no longer remember his name.”

  “Father Abbot,” Andrezski said, taking control of the conversation, “it is very important to us—and perhaps to you—that we speak with him.”

  “Important to me? How?”

  “To you and the monks here at St. Stephen’s.” Jerzy took in the surroundings and continued. “You men of God have had to work exceedingly hard to wring substance out of your prayers to the Creator,” he explained as diplomatically as he could.

  Karol Kaminski nodded, his bare forehead gleaming in the June sunlight.

  “One might imagine,” Jerzy said in his most empathetic merchant’s voice, “the men of God at St. Stephen’s must live a sometimes-meager existence, nie?” He could see the abbot was deep in thought. “Perhaps we might be able to help.”

  After some moments, while his guests waited patiently, the abbot conceded, “The man you seek is Brother Heidolphus Brotelin. I will bring him to you.”

  …

  The more he thought about it, the angrier Bishop Tirasewicz became. His eyebrows arched like bristles over the cold stare he cast across the empty room. He had long made it his business to keep an ear to Poznan’s ground—for the good of the church, he told himself—and often, the things he heard paid dividends. And then his face turned upside down and his smile became like a cat’s grin over a mouse.

  “Father Shimanski! Have my horse brought round.” Despite the June warmth, he threw the black cape over his shoulders and splashed himself with the scarlet piping and cap of a bishop of the church. In a short time, he found himself at the convent gate, where he demanded an audience, unannounced, with Sister Luke.

  “Why yes, Bishop Tirasewicz,” the Mother Superior said, surprised at both the visit and the bishop’s distinctly cool manner, “how can the Dominican Sisters be of help to His Grace?”

  “Let’s be seated, Sister Luke. Where we can talk.” He followed the silent, obedient nun to a small parlor.

  “I have become aware, Sister Luke,” he said, repeating her name so as to command her full attention, his voice like an insistent drumbeat, “that your convent has sought to profit from the misery of the people. Much gold and silver has come into your hands from those of one Jerzy Andrezski, is that not so?”

  “With all respect, Bishop Tirasewicz, many goods were left here by the dying, but little silver and no gold,” she carefully stated. “I merely engaged Pan Andrezski to sell the goods, and return to us what he thought reasonable.”

  “What he thought reasonable, Sister Luke?” he said, the words carrying both contempt and sarcasm.

  “Yes, Bishop, and Pan Andrezski has been very generous to us.”

  “Generous. Surely. I am deeply disappointed you haven’t decided to share your bounty with your bishop.”

  “You had just returned to the city, Your Grace. There hasn’t been time to apprise you of our good fortune. And I might point out that with the loss of so many priests and parishioners, Pan Andrezski’s generosity has been most timely. We have very little.”

  “Your bishop, too, has little, Sister Luke. My needs are sparse! You must consider giving half of what you receive for the needs of your bishop and the cathedral.” It was clear this was not a suggestion.

  Stunned by the bluntness of his greed, Sister Luke said, “But Your Grace, such a subtraction from our treasury would present a great hardship to us.”

  “Did you not take a vow of poverty?”

  “We did, Your Grace, and we are poor, still, and only following your instruction to fend for ourselves and the city’s poor. The sisters and I,” she said, bowing her head, “never thought of you in those terms.”

  The bishop slapped the arms of his chair and rose, his temper at its edge. “Well, now you can think of me in terms of half your income,” he snarled. “Is that understood?”

  Sister Luke dipped her chin. “I certainly understand your position, Bishop.”

  Chapter X

  1410

  Giverny, France

  “I have seen so much death in my life. I caused it to others. Now,” she whispered to no one, “now, it comes for me.”

  That death had found Big Franciszek caused her little guilt. That it eventually found Tomasz Wodowicz—after all the murders she had learned he committed in his pursuit of vengeance—caused her none at all.

  Irina’s mood shifted with the charcoal clouds crowding out the spring sun. The past month had become a pageant of bitter memories come to haunt her. She shivered. It seems I must live those days again! But not for long, nie? For some time, she stared into the chateau’s shading meadow, where she knew other life would soon do the work of the night world.

  Finally, the well-padded chaise enveloped her into a fitful state, neither awake nor asleep. Though wrapped in the folds of a long nightgown, she could not shake the chill. She reached for the cape lying across the nearby chair where Velka often sat to keep her company. Forcing her lips into a smile, she thought about the cape made of farmer’s wool, yet handsomely sewn and dyed a brilliant blue. She pulled it over herself, clutching tightly the last relic of her youth, and awaited the warmth she hoped would soon caress her. But the wool’s feel against her cheek drew her
further into the past.

  Pain brought her back to the present as it grabbed her once more, then left, leaving her to await its return. The ache in her belly wasn’t from bad food or impure water, and neither was it from despair over a long-ago loss. It was something else. But will I have long enough?

  For herself, another kind of death would be her visitor one day, but not before, she hoped, there might be an answer to her most ardent prayer. What has become of you, my son?

  Velka’s soft whisper stirred her. “My Lady, is there something I can do for you?”

  “Where did the sun go?” Irina asked drowsily, as if the day’s earlier warmth might still caress her, ease her discomfort, and shield her from her own memories.

  “You needed your rest, so I didn’t wake you. Would you like some broth?”

  Irina shook her head. “You are thoughtful to ask. Later, perhaps?”

  “Just call out, My Lady. I will come.” Velka backed away, her felt slippers shushing on the polished wood floor.

  Cold rain began to pelt away the day’s remainder. Soon, its tattoo upon the chateau’s wavy windowglass seemed to insist she not brush aside all that had happened in her life. It had all started in Poznan, a place so far from where she rested, yet the images of what happened seemed to surround her—like the clouds hovering outside her window.

  Irina clutched the cape, and as her eyelids fluttered in surrender, she turned her mind’s eye to another time and place. Over the years, she had become less certain of her memories, and some, she supposed, were the recollections of others she had woven into her own. It no longer mattered. The year 1378 was one of upheaval and adventure.

  * * *

  1378

  Teutonic Lands

  Jan Brezchwa hurried to be at Irina’s side as she disembarked the barge at Frankfort an der Oder for the day’s travel overland.

  “How can I be of assistance, My Lady?”

  “Do you not first attend to your master, Father Madrosh?”