Irina

by Philip Warren

  Travel on land and uphill much of the time became even slower as they followed mountain roads heading toward the River Main. Six days past Jena, the party halted when it became clear that little Matti, son of Squire Schoenist, was nowhere to be found. On behalf of his man, King Wenceslas sent searchers, first to look into every cart and trunk, and then, into the surrounding trees and hills. When Matti did not reappear, the king directed his men to return to the place where they had last rested.

  In the meantime, the entourage abandoned their conveyances for what shade they could find. Many prayed. Others reminded Irina what voyagers should always remember. Whether it was disease, loose bowels, bad food, fevers, storms, or drownings—not to mention enemy attacks—almost never did a group beginning a journey have the same number at the end of it. Already a soldier had drowned crossing the Oder and a mother had miscarried. Except for Krosno, there had been no force of arms against them.

  Irina was one of those who sat quietly and waited. Although she had come to believe much of what Madrosh had taught her, belief in prayer was not yet part of it. As the hours wore on, she fretted. What happened to little Matti?

  Near sunset, the answer came with the return of the horsemen. One of them, she saw, had a small bundle tie to his saddle’s pommel. Only an eerie quiet accompanied their return. Their grim faces told part of the story. The news passed in hushed tones. Little Matti had wandered off once too often, it seemed, and he’d been caught by what they’d supposed to be a gray wolf foraging for meat. Little remained of the boy, who had been found by the dogs accompanying the men.

  At once, the king commanded a Mass be said for the lad and immediately, what little remained of him was buried by the roadside, his grieving mother not the least bit comforted by the heartfelt words of those around her. It seemed as if the entourage had been schooled by the words of Irina’s mother. They wasted no time on sadness, but set up camp for an early morning’s departure.

  Though the next day’s journey began in a somber mood, it changed once again when the travelers learned that once they reached Bamberg, life would become much easier for all. At that point, they would board barges and catch the current down the Main for many miles. While the summer heat would once again prevail, they would be freed from the cruel bounces the carts offered.

  By the end of August, when the party came upon the mighty Rhine at Wiesbaden, to Irina, all seemed right with the world.

  …

  “I am most displeased, Father Abbot!” Bishop Tirasewicz said, his voice shaking, the nostrils of his long nose flaring.

  Keeping close eye contact, Father Kaminski thought the bishop’s pointed nose was aimed like a dagger. “I do not understand, my dear Bishop. How could I possibly have displeased Your Grace?” The abbot believed he had nothing to fear from the Bishop of Poznan, so why did he now feel afraid?

  “Why, dear Abbot”—the last two words uttered sarcastically as if in riposte—“do I have to hear about your great commercial undertaking from common gossip around Poznan, and not from your own lips?” The bishop’s eyes were as demanding as his voice, the tone of which seemed to condemn his listener to an unhappy fate.

  Father Kaminski steadied his eyes on the hawk-like face in front of him, and waited a moment before answering.

  “Bishop,” the abbot responded with no formality or concession, “you are aware that I make trips to Poznan every three months or so. It is not yet September, when I customarily make such a journey, and at that time, I would have given you a full report on the activities of St. Stephen’s.”

  Mollified but little, the bishop’s voice remained firm, yet now more petulant than peeved. “Father Abbot, it is more than a mere report that interests me, but now that I have come to you, you may deliver it.”

  “I am not prepared to do so, Your Grace, but if you’ll dine with us this evening and enjoy a good night’s rest in our most comfortable quarters, I will provide any information you wish in the morning, before your departure.” The abbot knew his words were presumptuous, but he’d made a decision.

  “As you wish, Father Kaminski. I look forward to it.”

  Despite the summer evening’s heat, the atmosphere had been decidedly chilly. Nevertheless, the morning’s sun seemed to grant fresh dispositions to both oral combatants. A hearty breakfast went even further to fuel their exchange.

  “As you may have heard, dear Bishop, the monastery is fortunate to have the special skills of a glassmaker in our midst, and that discovery, coupled with the know-how of a Poznan merchant, will allow us to make a better living for the monastery and for the people we serve around us.”

  “What about service to your bishop?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Surely, Father Abbot, there will be financial rewards. What were you planning to offer the Diocese of Poznan?”

  The question was not totally unexpected. “Ah, of course. Let’s work this out together. We don’t know to what degree we’ll be successful, naturally, but we will need to pay our workers, our own expenses for materials in the manufacturing process, and the costs of selling and transporting the glass. As well, the man who sells the glass will expect his own profit. It was his idea, after all. He brought together the means to make it happen, and it is his energy that will make it a success.”

  “Never mind about him and his problems—or yours, for that matter, Father. I want 50 percent of what you receive for the needs of your bishop and the cathedral.”

  “No.” There was no courtesy, as in, “No, Your Grace.” Only finality. The single word hung in the air like a large icicle suspended from a roof, ready to drop. The silence was not reverent.

  The bishop’s face purpled in rage as the color rose in his cheeks and enveloped his forehead. He could barely speak. “What did you say?” Tirasewicz demanded, taking a full second for each word.

  Father Kaminski glanced around the simple room, then rose to ensure the two doors were closed and that no one was attempting to eavesdrop. The bishop’s impatience pervaded the air.

  “I think we should understand each other, Bishop. As Abbot of St. Stephen’s, I report to my Order, not to the Diocese of Poznan. The resources of this monastery are at my disposal and for the use of this Order and the poor around us. What proceeds come to us are intended to go for the propagation of the faith and the needs of the people, and not for the luxuries of any one person. Because Pan Andrezski intends to sell what we produce in this duchy, I am sure he also intends to make a donation to the Diocese of Poznan, and I’m sure he will be generous.”

  The bishop’s countenance remained no less royal in color as he asked, quietly, viciously, “Andrezski? Did you say Andrezski? The same profiteer,”—his voice rippled with sarcasm and climbed higher with each syllable—“who has been dealing with the Dominican nuns in Poznan?”

  “One and the same. Surely, you knew that from your informer. In fact, I feel sure that Pan Andrezski’s donation to the diocese would be directed to the convent, not elsewhere. The Sisters saved his life and he feels grateful to the Church.”

  Bishop Tirasewicz gathered his black robes and rose to his full height. “I could have you removed,” he hissed. “I could have this stinking pit closed for all time.”

  The abbot stood to face him, finding his full voice. “Bishop Tirasewicz. Our understanding is not yet complete, it appears. Should you take such a foolish action, you will only bring upon yourself the wrath of Rome. The new pope, Urban VI himself, is a personal patron to the head of our Order. Like the Holy Father, our Founder, you know, is Roman, not Polish or German. I think you can imagine the events to follow as they would concern you.”

  All color drained from the bishop’s face. Pretense of power was unmasked. He had been brought to the level of a deposed tyrant by a mere abbot.

  “One other matter,” Father Kaminski added. “I have been courteous to you because you are the bishop. Outside this
room, I will maintain my respect for the See of Poznan. In return, you will never attempt to take advantage of this monastery again.”

  “You will regret this,” Tirasewicz rasped, no longer seeming quite as tall.

  “Bishop Tirasewicz,” Kaminski addressed him, “there is no need to be unpleasant. Our enterprise will bring monies to the city and the convent will no longer be a financial concern to you. You—and the Diocese—will benefit enormously.”

  For several seconds, the bishop’s composure seemed frozen. His contemplation complete, a slow smile came to his face. “You are right, of course, Father Kaminski,” he said with a full reversal of demeanor. “I was, indeed, hasty. That the convent will soon be financially sound is of great interest to me. Naturally, I will do all I can to further the success of your venture. My man, Tomasz Wodowicz, will be directed to see that the right things happen for you and this merchant, Andrezski.”

  The turnaround in Tirasewicz’s demeanor was so swift, so sudden, it gave the abbot pause as he forced out his next words. “Tomasz Wodowicz? Hmmm. A perfect man for you. Many will hold you to your word, I feel certain, Bishop,” he said with a slight smile. “Let me see you to your horse.”

  …

  Jerzy Andrezski spent the balance of the summer transfixed by the prospect of making and selling glass. Because of Brother Heidolphus Brotelin’s extraordinary labors, the gathering process for clean ash and the construction of the furnaces was completed, but the last major component required gentler hands.

  In conversations with the abbot, Father Kaminski had been careful not to divulge many details of his conversation with the bishop, but he had said enough. That the younger Wodowicz, dark side and all, found shelter under the bishop’s mantle was also cause to be careful.

  Andrezski became even more concerned when he met up with Sister Luke. She had become apprehensive about the order’s ability to support itself in consequence of the bishop’s demands, and unlike the monastery, her convent was under the direct control of the Diocese of Poznan. As a consequence, the thumb of the bishop was always upon them, his hand always in their coffers.

  “Sister Luke, now that all of the goods you gave me to sell are gone, just what does the bishop believe he is entitled to?”

  “I am not sure, Pan Andrezski. Somehow he has the idea you will continue to sell what may be donated or left with us.”

  “You can assure the bishop, Sister, I will continue to provide the same service to the convent, and on the same terms. As you wish, he can have half of all the money you receive from any goods I sell.”

  “But…”

  “That is correct, Sister. There will be very little.”

  “Then how are we to live?”

  “There will be another source of income for you,” he said with a grin. “What and whether you report so to the bishop will be, of course, your own affair.”

  “And what would that be, Pan Andrezski?”

  “As I recall, some of your nuns have experience as potters, and that you made all the platter ware for the churches and rectories in Poznan. Hasn’t that been a small source of income for you?”

  “Yes, but there has been less call for our pots, jars, and plates since the plague.”

  “Now there is more. I am bringing to you your first order. These pots are unusual and must be made carefully because they are special white clay pots necessary in the making of glass. We will need many as replacements on a regular basis, and as our business expands, so will your orders.”

  Sister Luke stared at the humble merchant in front of her. “You are not a simple man, indeed, Pan Andrezski.” Her composure gone, she caught her breath, inhaled deeply, and through her tears of gratitude, stammered, “Tell me more.”

  Jerzy relayed what Brother Heidolphus had described to him in great detail. “We will need six of them to start, Sister, and it would be best to make an additional pair, just in case.”

  Sister Luke paid careful attention to the requirements and took the drawing Jerzy had brought along. “You shall have the jars you require,” she said, now a vendor in a new business.

  “That will be fine. You must pack them with straw in wooden chests that we will cart to the monastery. When we need more, I will let you know. In the meantime, I will stay in Poznan.”

  “Djenkuje bardzo—Many thanks!” Sister Luke smiled in deep gratitude for the work. “I feel truly blest.”

  “There’s one other thing, Sister.”

  She raised her brow in expectation.

  “It’s Zuzanna. That little angel saved my life, and to her and all of you, I’ll be always grateful. I feel a responsibility for her. Perhaps, in time, she might come to think of me as her benefactor.” Andrezski stopped himself. “Oh, I know, Sister. I have no right to presume so. Her own parents may return to claim her.”

  Sister Luke hesitated, and sighed deeply. “Alas, Pan Andrezski, I fear her parents are gone from us. Someone would have come to collect her by now. As to your spending time and getting to know her, I think Zuzanna would like that.”

  A cluster of intertwined thoughts swirled in his head. Guilt claimed companionship as he realized prospects of commerce took more of his attention than Zuzanna’s welfare. While the bishop’s conivings were one thing, and much about the man remained unclear, of one thing Andrezski was certain: his religious beliefs were simple, and his leanings toward faith in God did not lead him to fealty toward Poznan’s worldly prince of the church.

  …

  After weeks of relentless heat, rock-strewn roads, and winding rivers, the Emperor halted the royal tourists at the frontier between Germany and France. His Excellency commanded a special Mass be said for his party and all those who cared to gather from the countryside. Rich and poor celebrated the relatively uneventful crossing of the Teutonic lands, and prayed for an equally quiet entrance into a new land.

  On the bluff overlooking the French countryside, Father Madrosh sang a traditional Latin Mass as hundreds uttered the words of confession and the Apostle’s Creed, then stood silent to receive Holy Communion from the priest’s hands.

  By this time, Madrosh had performed his pastoral work well, as everyone in their party had come to know the tragic story of Irina’s widowhood. The valiant death of her husband was the epitome of chivalry in the eyes of all and earned him prayers for his eternal rest.

  Too, Madrosh was aware all noticed the bond forming between the two youths, Lady Irina Kwasniewska and Squire Jan Brezchwa. From king to cowherd, they all knew that long life was always in question, and no one of marrying age remained long alone. Irina was expected to find a man for herself. If she did not, her liege, duke, king, or emperor would make the match for her. The budding relationship between Irina and Squire Brezchwa was seen as a natural solution to a small problem. All the better that they appeared to have chosen one another. Madrosh was content.

  Chapter XII

  1378

  “Humor me, Madrosh,” Irina exhorted her mentor as they bumped along the road to Paris some days later. “Explain to this humble country girl a bit more of the complex royal maneuverings that brought us here in the first place,” she said, holding her belly with both hands as she spoke.

  “Are you truly interested, My Lady?”

  “Not particularly, my dear friend, but I am now entering my seventh month, and if this road does not become less of a jolt to me and my child, I will be forced to have it in this carriage! And no woman should be pregnant in late summer heat.” She laughed—wearily. “Please talk, Father Madrosh, as it will take my mind from this present discomfort.”

  “Shall I have Velka sit with you? Or shall I find Squire Brezchwa?”

  Irina smiled, mostly in acknowledgement of the twinkle in his eye as he asked about Jan Brezchwa. “You may, but I fear their presence will not remove the ruts along the way.”

  Madrosh chortled. “I am so sorry, My Lady, a
nd can only wish you were in a better state to attend to my meanderings. You and I enjoy this kind of thing, so where do I begin?” It did not take him long.

  “This is what I understand the history to have been. The present king of France, Charles V, was crowned some fourteen years ago, and ever since, one war after another consumed the resources of the realm. On the surface, my dear, the country was at peace but like a large cauldron of thick soup ready to boil, there were deep and hot issues beginning to bubble.”

  Madrosh looked over at his student. “Is this what you were asking about?”

  “Perhaps. Yet I have wondered all these months why the invitation went out to the nobles of Europe.”

  “Ah! Let me see how I can explain this. What you may not have perceived is that for some seventy years, the pope has resided at Avignon, but Pope Gregory XI insisted on moving the official residence back to Rome. Charles’s attempts to persuade the pope to remain in France, ostensibly under the protection of the French monarch, were refused. Then poor Gregory died this past March, and his passing ignited a fuse.”

  “In March of this year? His death has something to do with the invitation, then?”

  “Yes, but the answer is not quite so simple. For political reasons, Charles wants the pope to remain at Avignon, and it was in this environment that Charles V launched his invitation for royalty and retinue throughout Europe to convene at Paris under the auspices of his uncle, Charles IV, the Holy Roman Emperor.” Madrosh saw that Irina was about to interrupt. “Let me continue, and perhaps you will understand it all.”

  He cleared his throat. “What made his invitation most sensible politically and serendipitous religiously, was what occurred in Rome after Gregory’s untimely death. Because the papacy had been housed in France for so many years, the College of Cardinals, the body that elects popes, had become dominated by Frenchmen. In Rome, mobs overcome with the notion that a new French pope would take the papacy back to Avignon, demanded election of a Roman and no other. In April, the Cardinals selected a commoner who chose the name Urban VI. The new pontiff quickly distanced himself from his former brethren by demanding from them virtuous and religious behavior, decrying their vices and restricting their sources of income.”