At the same time Irina weaved through Dampierre’s maneuvers, Jan stood in the circle of nobles answering questions about the wilds of western Poland. His keenest inquirer was a man ten years older than he named Auguste Sainte Tellier, son and deputy to the king’s minister of finance. Later, when the Brezchwas compared notes on their experience, each seemed delighted with the interest shown in them.
“Perhaps your instincts are correcte, my dear wife,” Jan said, once tucked into their coach for the long ride home.
“Indeed, Comte Brezchwa,” she said formally, teasing him. “Maurice Dampierre may be the key to everything.”
…
Tomasz Wodowicz raced away into the frigid afternoon air. That his father was dead at his hands was of no consequence. What angered him was that he’d failed to kill a little girl, and now he’d be hunted.
The last time his chest heaved in fear was when he escaped Krosno. Then, he’d galloped for miles until his horse could go no further. Today, at least, it would be different. Had the woman enough time?
He reappeared at her dwelling along the river. In fact, several hours had elapsed since his flight from St Michael’s, and it was after dark. Candleglow filtered from the window opening. He banged on the door until she answered it.
“Not until tomorrow, good Squire, as promised.”
“But I have been called to duty, woman, and I must have my clothing now.”
“There is something about you, Squire, that I don’t like.” Her statement was an arrow bolt in a conversation between a peasant and a person of purported nobility.
Wodowicz placed his hand on the court sword scabbarded in his belt for emphasis. “Do you know you’re talking to Squire Krawcyk of Gniezno?” His voice rose an octave.
“I do not know who I am talking to, my good sir. If you want your costume, you may rest here by the fire, but several hours remain, and the more you torment me, the longer it will take to finish.”
Wodowicz began to withdraw his sword, then slammed it to its seat. “Just so, good woman. I wait, then.” In any other circumstance, he would have slammed the sword up her breastbone and laughed while doing so. However, this insolent woman was key to him fully shedding the appearance of the man soon to be pursued. “Let them look for the castellan known as Tomasz Wodowicz,” he muttered to the fire warming the room.
“Did you say something, Squire?”
“N-no. How much longer?
“Be patient and be pleased, good man.”
Squire Krawcyk fell into a fitful sleep, only to be awakened by the urgent sound of hoofbeats passing near. “W-what, who, who is out there?”
“Only soldiers would ride through at this hour,” she said.
Krawcyk slept no more, but waited, perspiring, even as cold air fought the warm in the stifling room. He watched the woman’s fingers move with lightning speed as she sewed a tunic of fine wool, its sleeves and collar decorated with dark-blue piping. He wondered where in this godforsaken place would a woman find the materials she needed, but put the thought out of his mind.
Two hours later, she held the garments to the best light in the room and smiled. “Whoever you are, Squire, take these and go—and remember, I’m not the only one who saw you come here.” Quietly, quickly, he folded his new clothing. She produced a linen sack and held it open for him. She waited for him to acknowledge what she had said, then held out her hand. “You may pay triple the rate, good sir.”
Krawcyk’s jaw dropped.
She smirked.
“Your reputation is well-earned.” He flipped her the coins and turned.
Ignoring the coins on the table, she stood stone-faced, ready for him to leave. Surprise came to her face when she fell to her chair, unable to breathe, as Krawcyk’s short sword cut through her lung, piercing her through.
Krawcyk retrieved his silver pieces, then waited until he was sure she could not cry out. He turned and left, but not before wiping his sword on a piece of fabric. “You won’t be needing this cloth, eh, Panie?”
…
The Brezchwas decided to move quickly with Chevalle, encouraged as they were by what they’d seen and heard at le Duc Dampierre’s soiree. At the workshop, they framed satisfactory plans with the craftsman, and all in all, thought the morning went well. Making ready to depart, Jan asked him, “And so, Chevalle, now that your black men are free, how much do you pay them?”
“I pay them nothing, Monsieur Jan. You have made so few sales, I have only a bit more than before with which to support myself.” His tone, more than his words, scoffed at the notion of freeing and paying his men—to him, little more than nameless brutes. Despite their words of agreement, Chevalle had kept his men in bondage. It was not that he mistreated them. Indeed, not one of the four had want of shelter or food, but they were not free. All of Chevalle’s arguments washed away with that simple fact.
Irina and Jan stood there, their silence a contempt for his excuses.
“Why free them? They are no better than animals, no better than Jews!”
Irina could feel anger’s heat rise to her face. Despite her fine dress and refined manners, she picked up a barrel stave and took a step toward him, a man twice her size. “Did we not have an agreement?” It was less a question than a statement, and it was backed up by a woman with a weapon.
“Ah, more silliness from the Parisian wealthy,” he spat. “You two know nothing of business, and you know nothing of how the poor are forced to live.”
“Oh, I know about being poor, Chevalle, but poor as I once was, I enslaved no one.”
“Do your part,” he said, bowing mockingly, “and I will do mine. Now leave me to my work!”
Irina took another step, her arm raised, ready for the attack.
Jan did not intervene. He leaned against a large work table, folded his arms in front of him, and smiled while he enjoyed the show. The three black men shrunk in the corner, their eyes unbelieving.
Chevalle took a step backward. His hand searched for something on the bench behind him but found nothing. Irina could see him swallowing hard, and in a moment, he changed his demeanor altogether. “My deepest apologies, Madame Brezchwa. I had no idea you felt so strongly about these heathens.”
“When!” Jan would not allow a discussion about the matter.
“Tomorrow,” he tried.
“No! Today,” Irina commanded. “Now! Free them now, Chevalle! We will all prosper or starve together, but we will all be free!” In the silence, punctuated only by the hissing pressure in the steamer, she added, “We will wait.”
Chevalle summoned the three men with a jerk of his head and said, “You are free men now. You may go, if you wish.” Chevalle choked on the words, a jumble of French and some other tongue.
The men looked puzzled. In broken French, one of the men, Phillippe, said they knew nothing of freedom, that no one of their kind had ever been free.
“It is different, now,” Jan explained kindly. He went on to tell them that they could go where they pleased and live where they chose.
Phillippe spoke for them. “Monsieur. What is freedom if we are hungry? We know nothing else. S’il vous plaît, we will stay here and work for you if you feed us.”
For herself, Irina could feel her eyes well up, but smiled at them.
“For now,” Jan said, embarrassed, “that will be acceptable. When we are successful, we will pay you well.” Out of a large basket at his side, he produced breads, cheeses, grapes, and cold, boiled chicken. Offering the food and a cup of wine to Chevalle and his men, they all ate in nervous silence, but with pleasure.
The three freedmen, slaves only moments before, nodded happily and presented their broadest smiles.
Irina motioned to Jan, who pulled from a pouch attached to his tunic a gold sovereign, which he handed to Chevalle.
“This is what you will pay yourselves until the s
pring,” Irina said. “It is more than enough for all the bread, sausage, cheese, and ale to strengthen you—all of you—for your labors at Chevalle & Companie.” It was her turn to smile.
Three of her listeners beamed. Chevalle bowed, bitter, but richer, in defeat.
The Brezchwas departed open-eyed about life’s realities, and dejected at the same time.
“Irina, they are free!” Jan seemed self-satisfied.
“Mon Dieu,” Irina said. “We are just like them,” she added, gesturing in the direction of Paris. “These men will be comfortable only after we are comfortable!”
…
As he rode hard and fast on the back road toward Wozna, the only image in Squire Krawcyk’s mind was the look of surprise on the old woman’s face. “Who was she to be threatening me?” he spat into the wind cutting against his teeth.
Wozna came into view as rain began to fall, its drops like cold daggers cutting through his lambskin cape. There were other travelers, he noted, and he’d have to be careful in his words and mannerisms. Tomasz Wodowicz is dead, he reminded himself, and only Squire Krawcyk lives.
Dismounting, he led his horse to the lean-to serving as a barn, and tended its needs. Still in his country squire’s garb, he slipped around to his own lodgings and was glad to see it had not been ransacked. He lit a small fire and, drying himself as best he could, changed into the beautifully sewn clothing the old woman had bequeathed him. He laughed at the thought of it.
Into the inn’s main room, such as it was, he was greeted by two men at table who had already visited Josef’s ale barrel many times over. Sodden and surly, they sat with their eyes empty of thought but ready to close. One looked up and said, “Well, who do we have here?” his words slurred almost beyond recognition.
Josef spoke. “Mind your manners, you. This is Squire Krawcyk of Gniezno, and this is his inn.
Krawcyk was surprised at the old man’s loyalty, but quickly discerned why. To him, Josef turned and said, “These two men are soldiers from Poznan in search of Duke Sokorski’s castellan.” He stopped, then continued. “And they think it is my duty to feed and water them as a courtesy!”
“You men are from Duke Sokorski?”
“N-no, Squire,” one hesitated. “We are sent from the castle, to find the man who was castellan there, Tomasz Wodowicz.”
“Why are you here, then?”
“It is said, Squire, this man Wodowicz may have stolen some valuables from the bishop’s palace when he died.”
“Josef, didn’t you tell me of the bishop’s death some time ago?” The old man nodded, his silver forelock dangling near his eyes.
“Then why are you here now, my good man?” Squire Krawcyk addressed the one who seemed most capable of answering.
“We were told to search everywhere before the castellan could go far. Some say he murdered someone at St. Michael just two days ago and we are to find him.”
“But why here?”
“It was thought he would ride west, Squire. It is well we are here to protect you from this evil one.”
Squire Krawcyk smiled broadly. “Perhaps you are right, soldier. Josef,” he said, turning to the old innkeeper, “give these men more to drink. No doubt, they will guard us through the night and tomorrow. They can resume their search for this man, Wodowicz.” He smirked.
Surprised at the turn of events, Josef did as bidden. “Your horse, Sire?”
“All is done for the night, Josef. You and your lad may bed down if you wish. I will rest here for a day longer, then make my own way west.”
“But Sire, what of your ownership of the inn?
“The inn will be yours, Josef, along with my lambskin cape.”
“Then why, Sire, did you buy my inn?” he asked, clearly confused.
“So that I was assured of a place to—to rest.” Krawcyk knew he was tired. He had almost said, “to hide.”
Josef bowed. “Very good, Sire. And if I may be so bold to ask, Sire, where will your journey take you?”
“I am said to have cousins at Krosno,” he lied, “and I’ve been invited to visit. I’m told it will be a fine place to spend my summer.”
Chapter XVII
1410
On a sweltering August day, Irina braced herself when Velka poked her head in and said someone was riding up the lane. Is it Stashu?
But it was Père Alexandre Dubois who deigned to darken the morning hour. Irina noticed Velka’s wrinkled nose, a signal to her mistress that inhaling deeply might not improve her disposition. The windows were already opened as far as possible.
Irina’s habit of keeping one’s person free of the muck of daily living was shared by few others, no matter their place in society, she had come to learn. It caused her—and Velka—no end of amusement when so-called learned men like Monsieur le Docteur Bernard seemed content to live within a cocoon of dust.
“Père Dubois, how good of you to call. How may I serve you today?”
The young cleric smiled in response. “Madame,” he proceeded, “Monsieur le Docteur Bernard mentioned that you continue to feel unwell. It is true that I have not observed you at Mass on Sundays, and so it is I who come to find how I might serve you.”
Irina smiled her best client smile. “I hope the good doctor did not send you to offer me the Last Rites, Père Dubois, but I am glad of your company, in any event. Could we pray together, Father?” And that they did for some minutes, the priest administering Holy Communion and concluding with a blessing.
Irina spoke again. “I should not ask this, Father, but I must.” She paused. “Have you ever doubted God’s existence?”
“Ah, such a question,” the cleric exclaimed. “It is a matter of faith! And it is a matter you should never question,” he scolded her gently.
She smiled when she thought about another priest she had known. Madrosh was a man who seemed to believe every question was, in itself, an answer. For Père Dubois, apparently, there were no questions. “Ah, you are so correcte.”
After he departed, Irina’s attention shifted to the business she and Jan had managed for nearly two decades. To their great fortune, they had revived an artform in wood relatively unknown for hundreds of years, and introduced the wealthy classes to the beauties they had mastered. Veneered furniture, unknown amongst commoners, put their company name on the lips of many in salons across France. Was their discovery luck or providence? Irina came to feel it was the latter, but early on, the Dampierre affair seemed only like bad luck.
* * *
1379
The Brezchwas were invited to yet another soiree, this time at the palatial estate of the minister of finance, and there both Irina and Jan met again with their contacts, but on this occasion the four of them were in the same conversation, both nobles, as if competing with one another, expressing interest in seeing Antoine Chevalle’s work. It was an uncomfortable circumstance inasmuch as Dampierre and Tellier were mortal court enemies. Any attempt to work with the two of them would be a disaster, she had been advised.
All in all, the afternoon event could have been counted a success. As the sun moved toward the western sky and the afternoon air became frigid, Irina sought Jan to make their departure. Duke Dampierre cornered her once again, suggesting a showing of her wares. Though she was becoming attuned to the duke’s double meanings, she brushed them off, suggesting in turn that Chevalle needed many months to prepare a variety of pieces for Dampierre’s viewing. She detailed the demands of design, wood preparation, and manufacture, not to mention the staining and varnishing processes. Late summer, she said, after everyone returned to Paris from their retreats in cooler climes, was the earliest a viewing could be arranged.
“Will you display these pieces in your chateau, then?”
“What a most wonderful idea, Monsieur le Duc. I hadn’t thought to do that, but that will give me time to ready Fournier for your visit.
”
“Ah, wonderful, Comtesse Brezchwa! I am certain we will see more of you this season, but I will not forget seeing what you might offer me even sooner—I am sure you will let me know of a date?”
“Most certainly, Monsieur. Au revoir,” she said, her parting smile belying her apprehension.
Once inside the carriage, Jan confided to her that Auguste Sainte Tellier seemed more interested in him than in furniture. Irina laughed out loud and gave him an impish smile. “Don’t you dare let him take you from me.”
“Rest assured,” he answered and gave her a passionate kiss that led to much else on the long ride to Giverny.
“It is a good thing this is a closed carriage,” she laughed, “and that the driver is hard of hearing.”
Back at Chateau Fournier, she and Jan made plans to visit Chevalle the next day with more ideas for him. At the same time, they discussed how they might turn their large parlor—indeed, a small ballroom—into a showplace of sorts. “Whatever else Dampierre may be, he gave us a wonderful idea, and with luck, he will spread the word about our enterprise.”
The social season progressed as the Brezchwas might have expected. They were invited to more events, their attractiveness more an asset to them than their rank, and each time they saw Dampierre and Tellier—separately—they exchanged many pleasantries, always to be reminded of a future rendezvous at Chateau Fournier. Irina and Jan began to realize Dampierre and Tellier were courting them, but for what, they chose not to imagine.
…
Leaving Wozna, Squire Janusz Krawcyk accepted Josef’s gratitude and wished him and the boy well. “I doubt I shall return, my good man. The inn proved a perfect refuge for me, but I am called to the west.”
“Why, Squire, do you not return to Wielko Polska with your own kind? if I may be so bold.”
Krawcyk did not answer immediately, but then said, “I fear there is little for me here.” The inn had been a stage upon which he practiced his performance as a country squire, nothing more.
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