Irina

by Philip Warren

  “I bow to you, Madrosh. You are correct. It is never simple.”

  “As the summer’s heat invaded Rome, the riled French Cardinals decamped the city and returned to Avignon, where they immediately declared Urban’s election invalid and elected another Pope, Clement VII. We have only just heard of this, but it happened a number of days ago.”

  “You mean, while we’ve been crossing France, they elected another pope?”

  Laughing into his words, Madrosh tried to compose himself, “Yes! Charles had not expected the election of a second living pope. When he thought about it—at least that is what the margrave has confided to our Duke Zygmunt—Charles did not regret the bothersome pomp, pageantry, and exorbitant expense of having his uncle and a good bit of royal Europe as his guests. They could help him further solidify French power, along with a new French pope. It was an opportunity not to be lost!”

  “So, now there’s one pope in France, and another in Rome?”

  “I could not imagine such a plot myself, dear Irina. It is into this roil we find ourselves.” Suddenly, he stopped speaking. “Ah! Look ahead! There! Can you see it? It’s the wall of Philip II Augustus, built by him some two hundred years ago to protect his city.” They could see crowds gathering and cheering.

  And so, in that dry, balmy time of year, the vast procession approached and were met by emissaries of King Charles, then directed through a gate three times the height of a man, where throngs cheered them on. Atop the rapidly decaying wall were squads of workmen performing necessary repairs. To a man, they looked down from their lofty perches and as instructed, no doubt, raised lusty cheers and waved their caps in honor of the rich and colorful royal parade.

  Despite the no less bouncy carriage, Irina could not believe what her eyes were seeing. The great walls, the tall buildings, the masses of people. “All on a perfect day,” she voiced.

  “You said something, My Lady?”

  “I am taking it all in.” She could hear the pealing of bells throughout the city. One in particular was throaty and deep, its toll seeming to rumble the very avenue on which the visitors rode. “Such a sound, Madrosh! Like thunder itself.”

  The priest said they were hearing the Bourdon Bell, called Emmanuel, being rung for them—for the Emperor, really—from the Cathedral of Notre Dame.

  “Just how can you know so many interesting facts?” Irina exclaimed.

  “Just so, My Lady,” he said smiling. “It is true that my studies at the university in Krakow included many subjects.” He then pointed out that the great cathedral had been finished when he was a boy. He had wished to see it, he said, ever since hearing about its great buttresses and colored glass windows.

  As the procession moved further south, they enjoyed the swarms of people pressed against the stone and timbered buildings along the roadway. They actually looked fed and healthy, and the streets—paved in stone—weren’t carpeted with filth.

  The party paused when they reached the River Seine. From their vantage point, they could look across the river at the Île de la Cité, and see the entire majesty of Notre Dame itself. Irina had never seen anything made so beautiful or reaching such heights. The cathedral’s stone catching the morning sun took her breath away.

  “One can only pray nothing ever happens to Notre Dame,” Madrosh whispered to himself.

  Someone bade them cast their gaze to the west where the new Palais du Louvre gleamed like a fortress built of snow. Madrosh explained that King Charles had directed a great architect to add strength and beauty to the original arsenal built by Philip Augustus, remaking it a stunning royal residence. No longer would French monarchs reside on the island in the middle of the Seine, but in the Louvre.

  “How did they come to name it so?” Irina asked, practicing the sound of a name so unusual to her tongue.

  “Actually,” responded the encyclopedic Madrosh, “it comes from an old Frankish word, louwer, meaning fortress, but you can see, as Charles decreed, it is now much more than it had been.”

  “Will we be staying there, Madrosh?”

  “No, My Lady. I understand the Emperor and his family, staff, and soldiery will make it their residence. That would likely include King Wenceslas as well.”

  Looking a bit disappointed, Irina rejoindered, “And us?”

  “Do not look so, My Lady. We will be staying on the island itself, in the Palais de la Cité, next to the church called Sainte-Chapelle and not far from the beautiful cathedral I have waited so long to admire. Be assured, dear Irina, we will be most comfortable.”

  Irina herself cared not where she stayed. Her concern was for the new life she carried.She estimated she was but six to eight weeks from delivery of Berek’s child, a child impatient to be born, judging by the amount of kicking and turning inside her. She was glad to be at journey’s end, not only because it had been long and arduous, but because she needed time to prepare for the rigors of birth.

  “Will there be room there, Madrosh? With all the nobles of Europe coming, I mean.”

  “High royalty will be welcomed to the Palais du Louvre. The rest of us will find comfort on the island. Being somewhat apart from those on high will have its advantages, I assure you,” he said with a broad smile.

  Irina looked toward the island and again at the distant castle. “Madrosh, why are there so many castles in the city?” she asked in all innocence. “Why would the king want to move from such a beautiful place?”

  “My Lady, as you know, there’s a story behind every story, isn’t there? Here is what I understand. Many years ago, the monarch created a position called the Provost of Paris—a man who represented the king and managed the affairs of the city. Over the years, the provost accumulated much power, and about twenty years ago, he led a merchants’ revolt against the monarchy. The crown initially conceded a few things the provost demanded, but after a year of wrangling and bloodshed, the king’s forces crushed the provost, and he and his men were executed.”

  “I am not sure I take your point, Madrosh.”

  “As a guest here, My Lady, I wish to be careful what I say. The French are not a calm people. They are not easily put down. I suspect the king thought the island too hard to defend and too easily surrounded. The old fortress du Louvre presented itself as a much more viable stronghold. That’s why the king began its redesign not long after the uprising ended.”

  “I see!”

  Madrosh chuckled, “I am sure you do, My Lady. It is the same everywhere, nie?”

  “Yes, Madrosh. Safety and comfort go to those who hold power.”

  …

  At St. Stephen’s, Brother Heidolphus Brotelin’s broad smile earned the attention of his abbot.

  From his place across the refectory table, Father Kaminski said, “Brother, you are to be permitted a moment of satisfaction, and I shall not remind you about the sin of pride.”

  Brother Heidolphus bowed in respect to his superior. “It was not pride, Father,” he said to Abbot Kaminski. “Truly it was not. My smile reflects my deepest thanks to the Almighty for having provided so many beech trees.”

  “Why beech trees, Brother? I never asked you,” asked Jerzy Andrezski, who had been asked to join in their celebration.

  “Beechwood has a chemical property that gives us not only clear glass but shades of gold, yellow, reds, and purples. The glass we make will be beautiful, indeed, once we have mastered the timing in the fritting process. I remember the Italians also said the clay used in the pots had something to do with the coloring. We have much to be pleased about, but there remains much more work to do.”

  It was the third batch of glass panes that had been perfectly executed, or nearly so. The white clay pots fashioned by the Dominican Sisters were exactly what he had requested, and once they arrived at St. Stephen’s, the entire process had begun in earnest.

  With the process mastered, the molten mixture was poured on
to a large stone, ground perfectly flat. When cooled, what remained was what the monk called a “round” of new glass that could itself be ground, polished, and cut.

  “When will samples be ready?” pressed Jerzy, the anxious merchant.

  Brother Heidolphus exhaled, “Very soon, Jerzy.”

  “Actually, my Brother, I will need extra pieces to cut in addition to a quantity of sample glass.” In response to Brother Heidolphus’s raised eyebrow, Jerzy added, “I’d like to install a few small glass panes for the Sisters at the Heart of Jesus. They will be my first customers, then others will see the windows in the convent and the church, and become my next customers.” At that, everyone laughed at the earnest man of business.

  After another ten days of experimentation, Jerzy had all the glass rounds he could manage. In the same cart used to transport the clay pots from Poznan, he and his helpers packed the pieces of glass in layers of straw. With Father Kaminiski’s prayer and blessing, Jerzy and his men departed for the city, and Brother Brotelin found time for prayer—and rest.

  …

  Father Michalski finally left Gniezno, his departure delayed by a fever keeping him abed for a fortnight. Bishop Gromek had insisted the he remain until well enough for travel, and promised his visitor he would send a message of explanation to Bishop Tirasewicz. Father Michalski, though grateful for the gesture, knew the bishop’s note would make little difference.

  It was with some dread, then, that the priest began his journey home. His own master was not the kind, gentle churchman he had observed these past weeks in the person of Bishop Gromek. It would be generous, indeed, to describe Bishop Tirasewicz as a churchman at all.

  How the bishop would feel about the report he would offer would be another matter entirely. He loosened his Roman collar, shuddering when he imagined the conversation.

  …

  Less than a week later, Jerzy had several clear and golden-hued panes secured between lead muntins in the convent wall facing the square. He then installed the new devices as windows in the very room where he had survived the plague. The Sisters were especially pleased by their new ability to see outside without the rain and wind coming through the openings, and to enjoy the sun’s warming rays.

  One of the older nuns, who had survived the plague but was never content, said in a high, shrill voice, “This is so nice, Pan Andrezski, but when we want a breeze come next summer, how will we let it in?”

  That stopped him cold. “You know, Sister, I never thought about that. Perhaps we could make a window swing like a door. Would that do it?”

  “Most assuredly, young man, but summer will be here before we know it. You’d better hurry.”

  “I’ll have to think how best to do it, Sister Agnes. Let’s now enjoy the fall weather.”

  “Now don’t delay, kind sir. The hot days will be here soon enough and these woolen habits make me think of Purgatory!”

  Thinking he was glad to have never married, he said, “Yes, ma’am. I’ll get to work on it.” As he walked away, he thought about her complaint. It would be a wonderful way to improve the value of his product—and create a need for more skilled workers.

  Jerzy carted his samples as far east as Gniezno and found immediate demand for his glass wherever he went. No longer was it a magical luxury seen only in great churches and palaces. To accommodate the demand, he knew, the monks would build more furnaces and cut more beech trees. Ah, poor Brother Heidolphus—no rest for that man.”

  As fall winds pulled the last leaves from the trees, Jerzy’s work crews retraced their earlier journey and began to make and install the clear and colored windows their customers had purchased. Theirs was a craft requiring much careful work, and when finished, they left behind delighted nobles and churchmen.

  Everyone involved in the business was overwhelmed with their success. In all their labors, they had overlooked nothing. Or so they thought.

  …

  In the old Palais, arrangements and accommodations were quickly made for nobility and those further down the ladder of both regal and social importance, all in accord with a strict code. Nevertheless, Irina’s pregnancy worked to her advantage. Courtesy of Duke Zygmunt and King Wenceslas, two older men who oversaw her maternity with grandfatherly concern, Kalmus had been assigned to oversee her journey to motherhood. Recruited to join the company at Tangermunde, and seemingly ever-present ever since, Kalmus was a plump woman with iron-gray hair always in a tight bun that seemed to pull the wrinkles from her face.

  Still with child were Irina and another woman from King Wenceslas’s party. Kalmus kept herself busy tending to each of them, and her stern personality ensured her “ladies” took no risks to themselves or the lives they carried.

  Irina had Velka and Rosta to care for her, and, importantly, Jan Brezchwa made it his concern to stay close at hand. She and Jan talked for hours, their acquaintance having developed into a friendship, and then into something else.

  She found herself caring for Squire Brezchwa in a way she never thought would be possible after the loss of Berek. Her affection grew to the point she longed to hear his words of fondness, feel the touch of his hand on hers, his lips on her lips. When that had not occurred as she might have expected, she came to the conclusion he simply did not know how to say what he was feeling and thinking. She determined not to fret about it. And do I really want this now?

  Irina was further comforted to learn that Duke Zygmunt and her beloved Madrosh were housed a stairwell away on a level just above them in the truly charming, but very old, Palais de la Cité. Safety was uppermost in Irina’s mind as she contemplated her place in a strange but beautiful city.

  “Madrosh,” she commented two days later as they began one of their many tours of Paris, “how is it that these people, these French, seem so much more advanced than we?”

  Madrosh smiled before answering. “Don’t let their buildings and clean streets alone impress you, my dear. They are people just like those we left behind. In time, they will prove that to you.”

  Irina chuckled. “You always have to be mysterious, dear Madrosh! Speaking of buildings, is that yet another huge new fortress they are constructing?” she asked, pointing. “Don’t they have enough of them?”

  “That, my dear, is to be called la Bastille, and someday soon, if I may say, it will house those who demonstrate themselves insufficiently happy under the rule of Charles V.”

  “Do not speak in riddles, dear priest.”

  “Please remember what I said about care in the words we use here. We will not have the protection of the emperor or the margrave if we are bad guests in the eyes—and ears—of the French king.”

  “Thank you for the kind reminder.”

  “As to la Bastille,” he continued in a lower voice, “they tell me it was originally the gate of Saint-Antoine in King Philip’s wall. Not too many years ago, sometime after the revolt I mentioned earlier, it was extended as a fortress for the defense of the city, but remember what I said. The French cynics and I agree—discreetly. One day, it will make a fine state prison.”

  Irina wrapped herself more tightly in the great cloak she wore. She wasn’t sure if it was the weather or the new Bastille in front of her that gave her such a chill. “Must you be a pessimist, Madrosh?”

  “Things are not always as they appear, my dear. Those we’ve seen are apparently content citizens—or perhaps wise enough to restrain themselves—but they are heavily taxed to fund the king’s military endeavors, as well as his lavish palaces. Underneath the smiling and cheering crowds, there is a tension, growing by the month. I fear what the future holds for a French monarchy.”

  “When you talk about these things, I am confused. How can one tell good from evil in such a complicated life?”

  “I do not always know, Irina.”

  …

  “What do you think will happen to our little Zuzzie?” Jerzy asked
Sister Luke.

  “What is it that so concerns you so, Pan Andrezski?” she asked, gently, without answering his question.

  “I am unsure about what is right for her. At the moment, I am not in a position to give her a home or raise her. Even a young boy would overfill my days! Someday, if she is willing, and if I have a family and a household for her to join, she would be welcome. I continue to feel a great obligation toward the little one who saw my thirst and gave me drink. And for now, I hope you and the good Sisters will keep her.”

  Sister Luke offered him a look of warm understanding. “Pan Andrezski,” she began most kindly, “with Poznan being a center of your new business, you may come by and rest with us often, spending as much time as you wish with our little angel.”

  “Sister Luke,” he said hesitantly, “Zuzzie always speaks of her family, but, especially, of her sister Irina. Once, when I was here, Zuzzie mentioned her name, as if she knew Irina was alive.” He arched his brow in a question.

  Sister Luke’s face reddened, caught off guard as she was. “Pan Andrezski, you have not been alone in thinking about the right thing to do for Zuzzie.” She paused. “In that regard, I owe you an apology, good sir, because Irina may, indeed, be alive. I didn’t know how to tell you because I’m not sure it makes any difference.”

  Andrezski looked at her, attempting to absorb what she had just said.

  “Incredibly, Irina Kwasniewska was here—perhaps days before you. It was clear that she needed to leave the city for her well-being and that of the child she carried. Sister Elisabeth sent her away in the care of the bishop, but Zuzzie was not found until afterward, and so we did not realize they were sisters until it was too late.”

  “She was with child, you say?”