Irina

by Philip Warren

  “I have been ordered to see to your needs first, My Lady.”

  “Did you require such an order?” she asked, mischievously.

  Brezchwa’s face burnt itself red in an instant, and he said nothing.

  “Tell me, Squire Brezchwa,” Irina asked, ignoring his discomfiture, “what details have you learned of our journey to the west?”

  “I am told, My Lady, we will be on the River Spree for a few days. We will pass by the village of Berlin—there is not much there, it is said—and we will meet up with the Havel River. I understand it is beautiful as it changes from river to lake and back again many times over. Then we will cross overland to the River Elbe, near which is Tangermunde.” Brezchwa chuckled. “Father Madrosh told me of an earlier Margrave of Brandenburg who buried his treasure in the parish church there, and passed his secret to his son, the Margrave Otto. When Otto was taken hostage, he recalled his father’s treasure and was able to ransom himself.”

  Irina smiled at his boyish enthusiasm for a good story. “My, you are a waterfall of words today, Squire. And the journey?” she asked, unable to still a pleasant smile.

  “From there,” he said, clearing his throat in embarrassment, “much of the trip will be slow going as we climb up into the mountains. We will be many weeks yet in Teuton lands before crossing the French frontier. We should be in Paris, they say, sometime in the early fall.”

  “A long journey, nie?”

  “Tak—Yes, My Lady.”

  She thought for a moment. “That should give me some weeks of rest before my child comes.”

  Brezchwa lowered his eyes.

  Irina realized she had never spoken to him of her child, a much more intimate matter amongst nobility, she had come to understand, than amongst farm people, where conception and death were an everyday occurrence.

  Brezchwa stammered. “You will need help, then.”

  “Yes, Jan. I will.” As he walked away, she realized she’d just called him by his first name.

  …

  In the Silesian shade, Jerzy Andrezski was able to ignore the full summer weather. He made himself remain patient. Within an hour, Abbot Kaminski strode in followed by a truly ancient specimen of man. Nearing eight decades, Jerzy had been told, Heidolphus Brotelin had already been an old man when he worked on Poznan’s cathedral some thirty years before.

  He could see the monk eying him and Pawel Tokasz with both interest and suspicion, but seemed to show some recognition for their old companion, the one with the crafty smirk.

  Brother Heidolphus looked directly him and said, “Jan Wodowicz! I’m truly surprised you’re alive.”

  Wodowicz shrugged and gave him a crooked smile in return. “It’s been many years, Heidolphus. And I am here because we both remember something of value to these men.”

  Brother Heidolphus looked back at Andrezski and asked, not unkindly, “What do you want of me?”

  “We want to make glass, Brother, and with your skill and memory, this may now be our time to do it.”

  Brotelin nodded and seemed to search his mental shelves for the knowledge they were seeking. “That is a worldly skill forsaken by me decades ago. Why would I resurrect it now?”

  “Because what you know, Brother, will help the monks of St. Stephen’s and so many others,” he said.

  Brotelin pondered further, then looked to his superior, silently seeking permission. Father Kaminski accommodated him with a nod.

  As he spoke, the elderly man lost years from his face and the infirmities of age as if by some magic. “Here, we could make what is called Forest Glass,” Brother Brotelin pronounced. “It had not occurred to me earlier, but I am aware, as is Abbot Kaminski, that other monks, particularly the Germans who live not many days west of here, have perfected a method using beech trees to make the ash we will need.” He saw the question in his listeners’ eyes. “Ah! The German method is a bit different from that used by the Italians, you see.

  “This particular part of the forest is ideal for the production of glass, as I think about it. We have all the resources here we need but one: sand. You will have to bring me the cleanest sand you can find. Then we can make glass!” The old monk exhaled, as if he’d used up all his air.

  Andrezski was quick to reply. “I will provide the monies needed to start. Sand can be brought from the Warta or the Oder, whichever is finest. If you oversee us in the glassmaking, I will sell it. In return, you will have what you need to live God’s word here in the forest.”

  The old monk let go of an unseemly giggle. “A moment,” he said. “There is much work to do. In a few weeks’ time.” Thinking out loud, Brother Heidolphus began parceling out the work to be done by each of their party. Brother Heidolphus took a deep breath of satisfaction, as if his entire life’s purpose, after almost eighty years, had just been presented to him.

  As he finished speaking, a young monk strode into the room and whispered into the abbot’s ear. Father Kaminski shifted his gaze to Jan Wodowicz, and in a tone of astonished surprise, said, “Pan Wodowicz, it seems that your son is here to see you.”

  …

  The expedition had been tiresome, but at last, the Margrave and King led his troops and his guests up the road to Tangermunde. What Duke Zygmunt, Madrosh, and Irina could see was, indeed, impressive. The thick, pink-red brick walls of the castle were at least three, perhaps four stories high and the main gatehouse itself, square and solid, stood even higher. The roof rose from all four sides and reached a point—in the Teutonic style—from which the king’s colors flew in the July sun.

  King Wenceslas was proud of his domain and was gratified his guests were impressed with the signs of prestige and power. They marched into the castle’s courtyard with great relief. Those who were not soldiers, especially the ladies, were glad to be at a place where rest would likely take precedence over balancing themselves on the unclean river boats. Waiting for them in bright daylight were two rows of knights, fully garbed in small-link chain mail said to weigh at least forty pounds. Plumed crimson feathers rose from their dress helmets while emblazoned on their chests in a field of deep blue was a white cross. Armed with swords and halberds, they were less a formidable force than a king’s talisman.

  Irina and Velka, with Rosta in close tow, were escorted to a pleasant set of rooms lodged high in the inner wall of the castle. At once, she was confronted by a device she had never seen before. Instead of a woven mat or leather covering, she could open a glass window that swung in on the kind of hinge upon which a door might hang. Her whole life she’d been used to openings in a wall covered by an oilcloth, if that. To be able to look through the glass, wavy and bubbled here and there though it might be, was a great pleasure. She longed to share this wonder with someone she loved, and could almost imagine Berek at her side enjoying her excitement. At once, she was desperately sad without him, but infinitely glad to be safe with their unborn child.

  As her emotions ran between extremes, she realized her helplessness in discerning the why of things. As a female, she had always been told to bother herself with things of importance to the men in her life rather than what was important about life itself. To Irina, that would never be an answer. I cannot help what I am, but that fact will never stand in my way.

  One of the qualities she could not change about herself was her growing regard for personal cleanliness. Of all the discomforts of road and water travel, going without a morning washing all over made her skin itch just thinking about it. Almost as bad were the other members of the party from king to caretaker who saw no use in washing their hands and faces, removing the grease and oils from their hair, or changing their clothes with some regularity. Never mind the other parts of their bodies that, left untidied, made one grateful for outdoor encounters. At Krosno, she had the last full bath since leaving Poznan, and she would not permit another hour to pass before enjoying one again. Do the Germans use soap, I wonder? I w
ill have Velka find out!

  Thus far in their travels, the seemingly endless hours of thoughtful conversation with Madrosh were the greatest gift—and distraction—anyone could have given her. Believing much of what she’d heard from him, she wanted to explore further some principles that God Himself must have laid down but that had thus far eluded her attempts to perceive them. She would, she told herself, have to find out just how far Madrosh could take her.

  That evening and the next morning, she rested at length, then spent her energies directing Velka and Rosta in organizing their things and preparing for what would be a long summer’s land and river voyage. The castle had grown warm, and few breezes disturbed the air. After the mid-day meal of roast venison from a freshly slaughtered stag, along with bread, greens, and berries, Irina sipped from a flagon of ale. She did not know whether Madrosh was available for a good walk in the parklands surrounding the castle, but she held out hope.

  As if he had divined her thoughts, Madrosh found her. “Come, My Lady, and we shall see what this countryside may afford two Poles who are strangers in this land.”

  “Yes,” she responded with delight. “I, too, am ready for what might await.”

  They descended from the great dining hall to the courtyard and walked out the main gate itself, giving themselves another opportunity to admire the interesting and massive scale of Tangermunde. After some light conversation about meetings between the duke and King Wenceslas, and the developing schedule for their departure, Irina broke her silence and asked, “Madrosh, when God created the world and then, us, didn’t He also give us the rules that govern?”

  “You mean the Commandments.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “No, I don’t mean rules that we must follow. I mean rules we are born with. When I bake a morning cake, I put the raisins in the dough before the loaf goes over the fire. When the cake comes out, the raisins are baked in. Do you see? What rules are baked in us?”

  “You have broached this topic already, My Lady. Do you remember?”

  She looked at him quizzically. “Have I?”

  “On the walls at Krosno, as the trumpets sounded, you commented about man’s murderous impulses, and I said, ‘You have come to it.’ So, yes, there is such a rule as you call it. We call it man’s nature or natural law. We have come near it with our talks of Augustine and Aquinas.” He smiled broadly. “I see, however, your thirst was not quenched. Perhaps, we will attempt to drink a bit more deeply.”

  Quietly, as if preparing to jump a high hurdle, she said, “I am ready.”

  “Mind you, My Lady, you might be surprised to learn that it has been with very few people now living that I have had discussions about nature and its laws—except at Krakow, of course, and to no one have I thought to reveal my own views on the matter.”

  “You mean, Madrosh, that once again, you might hold a view different than that of the Church?”

  Madrosh inhaled deeply. “Alas, my dear one, once again, it may be so. You see, in any given age, what the Church has come to believe is what she insists her children believe. Those of us gifted—or cursed—with an inquiring mind, however, must be very careful with whatever thoughts or views might be uttered in query but received as heresy. You’ll remember what I said earlier about the Englishman, Ockham!”

  Their slow pace near and into the woods around Tangermunde proceeded enjoyably. The soft July breezes brought the fresh scents of new green amongst the trees with animal and plant life propagating profusely from the life-giving force of spring rains.

  “What you mean to convey to me—once again, Madrosh—is that what we talk about is not for the ears of another.”

  “Not any other, My Lady, and while I regret my fears, they are, indeed, real.”

  “Enough, Madrosh!” she said, not unkindly. “The sunshine awaits your secrets.”

  “Dear Irina, you have developed such charm. It is hard to resist your entreaty.”

  They walked on a few more steps. Without further encouragement, Madrosh began speaking, his thoughts streaming like a rain-fed brook, undammed and unbound, “Nearly all of the ancient philosophers believed there was a core of principles common to all persons, a system of right and justice no earthly power had a right to take away. Aristotle and philosophers known as the Stoics held what to them was obvious: natural law is often different enough in practice from man-made or what is called positive law. Laws and rules decreed by princes, kings, and even popes are in themselves subject to the influences of those who make them. They are often motivated by self-interest and therefore do not bind one’s conscience when they are in conflict with God’s eternal laws.”

  Madrosh looked over at his partner. She was deep in concentration.

  “When Augustine came along, he was amongst many Christian thinkers in the west who tied the natural to the divine. They believed the core principles—the rights of man—were all bestowed by an eternal God, and thus immutable, and eternal in themselves. He insisted that natural law was what existed before man’s fall from grace in the Garden of Eden. After the fall, living in strict accord with natural law was no longer a possibility and man could seek salvation only through divine law and the grace of Christ. We must come back to this point, Irina. It is where the implications in Augustine’s reasoning are most startling.

  “Aquinas felt that even if natural law was the perfection of human reason, it fell short of an understanding of, and an equality to, the divine law. In his Treatise on Law, Aquinas described it as humanity’s participation in God’s eternal law.”

  Irina laughed quietly. “Oh, Madrosh! It’s as if you are in a race, and I am struggling to keep up with you!”

  “My Lady, I have no doubt you are mentally running right at my side.” He, too, laughed lightly, then turned his mind once more to a topic he hastened to pursue. “And so, my dear, Aquinas sliced the bread even thinner when he said that the natural law could never be blotted out from the heart of a man, but applications of that law might be suppressed in conscience. That is a nice way of saying a man may ignore what is right in order to justify what serves him best. Tomasz the Terrible would understand that.”

  “But Madrosh,” she interrupted, “just what is this natural law you’re going on about?”

  He chuckled. “I suppose I have been dancing around it. It could be defined in different ways, many of them found in the Commandments themselves. To kill another, to rob him of his possessions, of his wife, to lie to him or about him—these are all rules that all must abide by so that each one of us may enjoy the peace of his own life.”

  “Animals kill and rob, do they not?”

  “Yes, they do, and that’s the difference. Remember when we talked about a vegetative, animal, and human soul? It is the nature of animals to do what they do. It should not be the nature of man.”

  “But isn’t it?”

  Madrosh paused to take a breath. “Let’s continue for a moment,” he said, ignoring the riposte. “All the great thinkers have agreed that these fundamental, natural, and moral principles must underpin positive law. It is these core principles that apply to all, Christians and non-Christians, but as Aquinas might add, it is divine law that gives us as Christians further guidance in our actions.”

  “Your words weigh heavily on the shoulders of this poor farm girl, Madrosh. Are you not simply trying to say that what basic rights God has given to man, each man must give to every other? What lies behind those eternal rights must be applied in the same way by those with an earthly power to give? Are you not saying that while man may change his laws with the seasons, God’s laws are permanent and unchanging? And are you not saying that because they are God’s laws, we must obey them first and last?”

  It was as if the summer air had evaporated, and everything came to an eternal quiet. As if the trees stopped to listen, the birds perched to cock an ear, as if the blades of grass stood themselves straight in respect.


  Catching the old priest’s eye was a giant stag that appeared over Irina’s shoulder less than fifty feet away. Standing tall as a man with antlers wide as a cart, it stood stock still and watched the human pair intently. Madrosh himself could not speak for several moments, and when he did, he was largely incoherent.

  “My Lady,” he said, bowing his head slightly, “it is you who should have taught in Krakow while I should ever remain your student.”

  “Do not go on so, Madrosh,” she said with an honest blush. “I only gave back to you what you so thoroughly laid out for me. You gave meaning to the raisins in the loaf!”

  “Ah, but now, I know not what or how much more I can teach you.”

  “Bah! I am but the moist clay in your potter’s hands, Madrosh. You have said nothing thus far to propel you toward the axe man. What is it you are afraid to say?”

  “Let’s go back to Augustine’s insight about natural law in the Garden of Eden. He said it was there that natural law existed in its purest form, as a model of perfection, perhaps, but when man was expelled from Paradise, it was no longer possible to live according to the law.”

  “Yes, that’s what I understood you to say.”

  “That’s true as stated—and by the way, my dear Irina, what I have said to you about the philosophers and the view of the church is all my understanding of their teachings. If someday you learn that I spoke in error, I do hope you’ll forgive this old man.”

  “You were saying…as you approach the hangman?” She laughed merrily.

  “It is not you dangling there, my dear! What I was saying was if Augustine’s insight is correct, it means that even in Paradise, man’s nature, which we thought had been uncorrupted and incorruptible, compelled him to grasp what was not his—the apple of perfect wisdom.

  “Do you see? If even in a state of grace in God’s special Garden, a place where Adam and Eve wanted for nothing, if even in such a place, man’s nature prevailed over the so-called perfection of natural law, then man never had a perfect nature at all.