Irina

by Philip Warren

  “Yes, just a few months along. When she did not return, I learned she had gone on to Paris with Duke Zygmunt. That was in the spring. What has become of Irina is a mystery, I’m sorry to say.”

  Andrezski looked off into the distance. “That changes everything, does it not?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Paris is not Poznan, and they tell me it is a very long way from here. Zuzzie may never see her sister again.”

  “Or maybe she will! May I see my little angel?”

  Sister Luke nodded. “Of course.” She smiled broadly, relieved of her burdensome secret. “I believe she is in the courtyard. There is one other thing, Pan Andrezski,” she added, in a different tone of voice.

  Jerzy stopped and turned, caught by the change in her voice. “What is it, Sister?”

  “When Irina was here, she was finely dressed, not a girl from the farm at all. What is more, she had a servant—Velka, I think her name was—and Irina claimed to be a gentlewoman from Gniezno.” She paused. “Yet there can be little doubt she and Zuzzie are sisters.”

  Jerzy’s face became a blank.

  “None of us understands, I’m afraid.” She smiled. “Perhaps someday you’ll go to Paris to solve the mystery!”

  They both chuckled, but Jerzy knew laughter could not brush away all the questions in his mind.

  The sun shone brightly, highlighting the few remaining leaves on the trees, as if to mark the fall day with a special brilliance. “Zuzanna Kwasniewska!” Jerzy Andrezski called out when he first he spied his charge in the convent yard.

  “Pan Jerzy, you remember my name! Did you find my parents? My brothers and sisters? Irina?” The look on her face was one of excitement, anticipation.

  Jerzy’s expression changed in an instant. “No, I did not, little Zuzanna, but I am certain they are looking for you. How could they not? They would never leave such a pretty little girl with an ugly old man like me.” He laughed.

  “You are not old or ugly. You are special to me,” Zuzanna said in her very small voice.

  “It is you who are special, little Zuzzie. You are the angel who saved me when I was thirsty.”

  She smiled. “I did little but give you water.”

  “No, little Zuzzie. You gave me life and I will always owe you mine.”

  …

  “Ah, dear Bishop Tirasewicz,” breathed Father Michalski. “At last, I am back in your care.”

  “Never mind that, Father.” The impatience in his tone evident with every syllable as he tapped a fingernail, fortified with everyday grime, on the wooden table. “You’ve taken a very long time to answer a simple question. What might that answer be?”

  “Your Grace, you know I had been taken very ill. Had Bishop Gromek not insisted…”

  “I said, ‘Never mind that,’” the man of God spat. “Tell me what I want to know!”

  “First, I can assure you, Bishop,” Michalski responded, quivering, “we searched every record, every possible baptismal entry, and spoke with many of the learned ones of Gniezno. What we found is absolutely nothing. There is no record of a Berek or Irina Kwasniewska, or any Kwasniewski for that matter. The Kwasniewskis seem not to have existed in that province.”

  Speechless with anger, the bishop stared at the young priest. His mouth snapped shut and opened again. “Then, this Irina we carted around like royalty is nobody! The so-called Lady Irina I foisted off on the duke is likely no more than some merchant’s daughter, or worse,” he exclaimed further. “Surely, someone must know who she really is!”

  “Did you not say, Bishop, that this young woman seemed to be of some means?”

  “Yes, Father, I did,” the bishop rejoindered, pensive. “And that is most interesting. Just how did she come by those means?” Tirasewicz looked into the distance, and after a moment, said quietly, “The fact that she is not who she says she is could be valuable in itself. I must think how I might use this information to advantage.”

  …

  “It is now time, Madrosh.” In her voice, there lingered the small triumph of decision matched by unforgotten despair.

  The old man smiled, rising from his chair, as he felt sure of what he was about to hear. Nonetheless, he played along. “Time, My Lady? The child comes?”

  “No, Madrosh,” she said, laughing. “I know you spoke with Jan Brezchwa on my behalf.” She became serious and looked into his eyes.

  Madrosh cleared his throat. “I did so, My Lady, only to nudge things along, perhaps. Your present condition suggests that a husband would be highly desirable.” He looked away, embarrassed.

  Taking his meaning, she smiled. “Words escape me, Madrosh!”

  Madrosh laughed—relieved—and blushed under his gray beard. “Then you’ve had a meeting of the minds?”

  “My dear friend, there is no meeting of the minds because there have been no words—or anything else,” she said with emphasis. “It is what I wanted to talk to you about, as my priest, confessor, and counselor.” She lowered her eyes, reflecting. “Berek Joselewicz was the first man I loved, and I know that despite our youth, he loved me and his child with all his heart.” In turn, her anger showed itself. “What happened to him and his family was a sin and a crime. There is not a day that I do not think of him and what might have been!”

  Madrosh faced her directly, letting his eye take in every nuance of her expression.

  “I am sorry, Madrosh. I have not yet learned to hide my feelings—and my bitterness.”

  “What you feel, I cannot even imagine. What I do know, my dear Lady, is that with few exceptions, like me,” he said gesturing to himself deprecatingly, “our lives are short, indeed. Your memories of young Berek are precious to you, but so is the life of the one to come.” He paused, then added, “and so is the life you have yet to live.”

  Irina looked up at him, her eyes wet with tears and anger.

  Madrosh inhaled deeply and continued, his listener desperate for every word. “Jan Brezchwa may not be your lover and hero, but he is a wonderful match for you. He comes from good Polish stock in the ranks of lower nobility. He will provide you a life that would be hard—now—to find otherwise.”

  “You are right, Madrosh,” she said, exhaling fully and taking more air before continuing. “How much does he know?”

  Madrosh shrugged his shoulders. “He knows what you have told him, and what very little I have told him. I would never betray your confidences, My Lady,” he said, and bowed slightly. “Because you are with child, and with whatever knowledge you have given him, he is, perhaps, fearful of rejection. I believe he has come to care very much for you, my dear.”

  “He has said nothing.”

  Madrosh nodded. “As I said, he may not know you are, shall I say, interested.” He cleared his throat.

  Her anxiety dissipating, Irina laughed. “Oh, don’t go on so! I suspect, Father, that a few more words from you might serve as an encouragement.”

  “And I suspect, My Lady, that perhaps a few words from you will matter much more.”

  “My head and heart needed to hear those words. The truth is, part of my agony has to do with guilt. There is Berek, high on his horse, and beautiful in memory. And there is Jan, a man for whom I have developed a deep affection, perhaps more.” Irina blushed, wanting to let her words end there. She cleared her throat of emotion and asked, “And so, Father Madrosh, what do we do now?”

  “You two should talk again. What I perceive is that all the ingredients are here for a good marriage, except…”

  “Except?”

  “Except the right words between you and…” Here, the old man stopped, hardly able to say the next words.

  Irina waited.

  “And some, some, ah, action,” he said, reddening, “to seal the arrangement.”

  Irina lowered her head, put her hands up to cover her face, and laughed out loud.

&nbs
p; “There is nothing to laugh about,” he said, still discomfited.

  “You are such an old innocent!”

  “I’d say, knowing the two of you, what happens next is up to you.”

  …

  The fall days in Paris alternated between brilliant sunshine and drenching rains. Luckily for those blessed with the comforts of an easier life, there were distractions most memorable. One of them was a royal gathering in the Palais du Louvre, where fresh tapestries hung heavy with their woven histories beautifully colored to enrich every tale they told.

  Madrosh had prepared her well. As Irina surveyed the throng of glittering nobility, everything the old priest had described seemed to fit together, much like the stories threaded into the tapestries. In her brief time in Paris, she had learned much, and not just from Madrosh.

  Surrounded by beauty and bounty, Charles V reigned in relative contentment, it seemed. Royal onlookers would have celebrated his many accomplishments for his country, if not his nation. Under his reign, the borders of France were largely regained, many fine cathedrals, fortresses, and palaces were constructed, and at the moment, the people were at peace, laboring mightily to enjoy great harvests.

  Yet those same observers might have noted there was a price to be paid. To achieve the greatness in mortar and stone, the nobles and the people were taxed heavily. Charles depended upon the French language and culture to unify his people. Moreover, he counted upon his small army of Catholic Cardinals to arrange Sunday support for his kingly visions.

  What might have been an ordinary time was not permitted by fate. When he issued his broad invitation for the nobility of Europe to come to Paris, Charles was at the peak of his reign. His uncle, Charles IV, was Holy Roman Emperor, and his cousin Wenceslas was King of the Germans. In his worldview, the only cause of distress was the inexplicable decision of Pope Gregory XI to return the papal court to Rome after some seven decades in Avignon, under France’s most protective roof. Even so, Gregory was a good pontiff, according to Charles, and at least there was stability in that corner of the king’s universe, even if that corner had now been removed to the Italian states.

  Jostling the king’s view, Gregory’s death, and the debacle of two popes more than blurred the original reason for a royal gathering in Paris: strengthening borders and alliances. Now it took on an entirely new dimension, one of supreme importance given that the Catholic Church served as the one and strongest common thread amongst all peoples and kingdoms of Europe and, particularly, of the king’s own France.

  Such complexities and eventualities consumed every conversation within every palace and royal residence, and while Irina relished the talk as a diversion from her maternity, for her, it was only that—a grand diversion. Her more immediate concern involved the future of a fatherless child. On this occasion in the Great Hall, the panoply and pomp served to distract her from thoughts of familial fullness.

  All around them were men and women dressed in the richest of scarlets, the truest of forest greens, and the deepest of blues. Velvet and damask prevailed, all trimmed in fur of the lynx. There was silk, tinseled cloth, and pearl embroidery aplenty, and enough enameled buttons and clasps to make a country woman’s eyes grow large. What took her breath away, however, was the bobbing sea of diamond- and ruby-encrusted headpieces, each one of them catching its sparkle from the hundreds of candles lit around the audience room. There were many kings and queens, it seemed, and Irina worked hard to follow court protocol.

  As always, Irina and Jan, along with Father Madrosh, were placed deep in the masses of the entitled, but near to their patron, Duke Zygmunt. After nearly a half an hour awaiting the king’s entrance, the hall’s glitter could not take Irina’s mind from her condition, after all. She began to tire of standing, and begged to be excused. People made way for her and Squire Brezchwa to make a quiet exit.

  Descending the broad marble staircase to the palace’s main entrance, Irina made for a carved stone bench on which to rest, when Jan said, “All of this is so pleasant, but so momentary, nie? It’s not real.”

  It was such an unusual thing for him to say, Irina looked up at him and waited.

  “I mean all the glitter, all the wealth in the world, means little in the dark of night when one is alone.”

  “What are you getting at, Jan?”

  “In the Great Hall up there, most of them mean little or nothing to one another. They’re all about position, power, and show. It’s a very thin covering for people fearful of what the next day may bring to their status and fortune.”

  “Why, I’ve never heard you speak that way,” she said, suddenly finding still another reason for kinship with Squire Brezchwa.

  “It seems people are better off when they have much less to lose. Then the people around them mean so much more to them. It’s then about family, the people they love.”

  Irina felt herself tingle with affection she didn’t think she’d ever feel again. “If that’s important to you, you should do something about it.” Her voice was thick, throaty.

  He beheld her, his eyes suggesting he was not sure if she meant what he might only hope was true.

  “Yes, Jan, I—I mean, we,” she said, touching her bulging midline, “can be your family.”

  Jan looked as if lightning had struck him into utter silence.

  “You have only to ask.”

  He knelt beside her, grasped her hand, and without a moment’s hesitation, said, “I thought you would never allow me to love you, and yet, I do. Would you allow me to be your most fortunate husband?”

  …

  A day later, when Irina and Madrosh had an opportunity to stroll the palace’s long halls while rain pummeled the windowpanes, she said, “Well, Father, Squire Brezchwa has asked me to marry and I have gratefully accepted.”

  Madrosh paused them in their progress and touched Irina’s forearm. “Do I perceive in you a note of happiness or victory?”

  “Both! Don’t ask any more questions, Madrosh. Time hastens! Now how do we do this,” Irina said, laughing, “before another blessed event intervenes?”

  Madrosh offered her a conspiratorial smile. “We need not make this complicated,” he began. “You and Jan are two young people who wish to wed. In the eyes of the church, you present yourself as the widow of Berek Kwasniewski. The banns will be published, and in a few weeks’ time, you will be married here in Paris.”

  Irina’s eyes became large in astonishment. “Madrosh, you devil, you have already thought this through, and unless I’m wrong, you and Jan have already discussed the details!”

  Madrosh did not answer, but smiled mysteriously. “With your permission and that of the Bishop of Paris, I would be most honored to say the wedding Mass.”

  …

  Weeks had elapsed from the time the Poles and the Germans made their entrance into Paris, followed by fifty dozen others in royal pilgrimage to the French seat of power. For the sojourners, it was a time to regain the pleasures of earthly comforts in what was for many a center of culture and civilization. Along with quiet conversations, arrangements and manipulations large and small, and diplomatic drama in every castle, the wedding banns for Lady Irina Kwasniewska and Squire Jan Brezchwa were published in good form.

  And so when the leaves had finished their aerial display and carpeted with color the beautiful, cobbled streets of Paris, and as the winds and rains of October demanded the attention of everyman, the Church of St. Denis became the scene of a serene and proper wedding of two young wayfarers. The Margrave of Brandenburg, King Wenceslas, insisted on giving the bride away while Duke Zygmunt smiled delightedly as sponsor of the groom. Many Poles and Germans from their long journey were there to wish them well, along with the church bells pealing their tonal joy.

  Atop the gold-threaded robes of the church, Madrosh wore a chasuble of white with a red cross, colors of meaning to the religious, and of national pride for Pole
s. Beginning with the words, “In nomine patrie…,” he blessed the wedding couple and all those present with the goodness of Almighty God. The Mass, laden with readings from the Old and New Testaments, told the story of sacrifice and remembrance, of abiding, eternal love.

  Showered with best wishes and purses of gold coins to help them on their marital journey, the pair had special words for each other.

  “Jan, I am so happy you have come into my life. I will always honor and love you for that.”

  “Oh, Irina,” he responded, “I am the fortunate one in finding someone like you. I will love and take care of you always.” Their kiss was long and loudly applauded.

  Chapter XIII

  1378

  Within days of their nuptials, the Brezchwas were flattered to have been invited to yet another grand gathering one late afternoon in the Great Hall of the Palais du Louvre. As always, Madrosh was there to accompany Duke Zygmunt and the small entourage from Poznan. Irina was allowed to be seated while they waited for the king, and from her vantage point, she enjoyed what pleasures her eyes revealed.

  For Lady Irina and Squire Jan Brezchwa, merely being in the same grand room again with Europe’s nobility, high and low, was living a child’s fairy tale. With its high, vaulted ceiling, a weave of stone arches and wood, the Great Hall sheltered all within from the rains without. Though Irina had heard much of foreign lands around the Joselewicz dinner table, the reality was far richer. Even on a gloomy day such as this, the hundreds of lit candles splayed their flickering streams on the jewels and rich brocades of the well-dressed women and men. More interestingly, the light made the gold and silver threads in the wall hangings seem to dance, their dazzle springing to life the woven stories of biblical times.

  The notion of two popes dominated everyone’s talk. Already, there was subtle pressure not to make a hasty decision about the counter-pope, Clement VII. Whether to remain loyal to the Church before their own culture, the Parisian clerics had yet to publicly express their views. They were waiting, no doubt, for a signal from their sovereign.