The men stood and bowed to the priest. “Will it be irreverent, then, Bishop Madrosh, to have another cup of ale?”
Chapter XIX
1410
When she met the merchant Andrezski back in ’79, not long after his encounter with Madrosh, and heard about his elevation to Bishop of Poznan, she could only be thrilled for him. Underpinning many of the startling occurrences in her life was her relationship with Madrosh, the wisest, and surely the bravest, man she’d ever met. What scholar in 1378, or even now in 1410, would have taken so unusual a step as to serve as mentor and tutor to a young pregnant woman of such uncertain origin?
Midway across the Teutonic territories, Irina had confronted Madrosh on the matter. “Madrosh,” she began, “why are you taking so much trouble for me?”
“Trouble, My Lady? Why, I’ve suffered none at all.”
“Surely, Father, were you to take the time to tutor such as Squire Brezchwa, no question would ever arise. But a young woman—with child—whom you do not know, and for whom there is no patron?”
“Perceptive of you, my dear, as always, but not fully accurate, if I might add. You’ll remember it was the bishop himself who directed me to watch over you on our journey, and Duke Zygmunt seconded that order to me personally. You were correct when you noted raised eyebrows, perhaps, regarding our talks about the philosophers, but you must also remember our sessions occurred outside of the bishop’s knowledge. It was on my own judgment which I relied.”
“You always choose your words so carefully!”
“Hah!” Madrosh chortled. “You have me there again. The truth of the matter, dear Lady, is that—and here I’m being a bit indiscreet—amongst our traveling companions, there are few minds of sufficient strength, shall we say, to lift the weight of our topics.”
“You overwhelm me with praise, Madrosh!”
“I fear not enough, My Lady.”
Velka broke her reverie with a gentle reminder that clothing adjustments, as she said, must be made so that Irina looked her best when seeing clients. That weight was slipping from her like ice melting in a thaw was one thing. Nearing her sixth decade of life, she could not be troubled by the change, but the increasing weakness she felt was interfering with her business and her daily life. Without being asked, Velka had arranged for seamstresses to begin the work of re-tailoring Irina’s evening clothes. “These gowns will look much better with a bit of needlework, My Lady, and once done, you’ll look young again. Who will know?”
“Bah! You foolish woman,” Irina said. “Don’t make me laugh so hard.”
Velka’s timing was superb, Irina noticed, as September was upon them. The evenings were rainy and the days colored by leaves beginning to fly. The monied class, nobility and others of wealth, had returned to Paris, and soon, she would be expected to appear at many soirees. She had come to be known as the face of Chevalle & Companie, and was well-regarded for her commercial sense. Who would have thought a purveyor of fine wood pieces—and a woman—could rise to such prominence? It was not easy.
Indeed, who would have thought a woman of such mean beginnings should have come to any notice above that of a peasant or, at best, the wife of a tradesman? Over her lifetime, nothing at all had changed regarding a woman’s expected place in the scheme of things.
In looking back, she could never have guessed that when she and Velka struck out on their own in 1378, she could have successfully carried her child to birth while escaping from plague and pursuers. She would never have dreamed that a Polish serving girl would find herself in carriages, on barges, and as the guest of royalty. She could not have imagined that she would find herself in Paris in the midst of Europe’s kings and queens.
That she would never see her much-loved Berek in this life was a cold fact. That she needed to survive and thrive was another. Most surprisingly, Irina had not expected the good fortune of finding a man who was willing to forego a dominant role in their marriage—and in their business venture. Yet such a man she did find, and never once did she have a regret.
Irina returned to her exchange with Madrosh, words of his that gave her such pleasure and no small amount of pride. She wondered what Madrosh might have thought had he known about Dampierre. Tight with guilt inside, she turned her gaze outward, across the greensward now bespeckled with leaves of yellow and rosy hues. Their rustling in the chilling evening breezes turned her memory toward another day from another time.
One of the most vexing problems they faced that September was how to manage the visits of le Duc Maurice Dampierre and Auguste Sainte Tellier on the same day without the two court rivals irritating each other.
They had not intended to have both men appear on the same day. In fact, they had only agreed on the 21st because Dampierre had insisted on that date. Tellier must have heard about it via the usual court gossips, and let it be known to the Brezchwas that he, too, needed to be at the showing on the 21st.
“C’est la vie!” Jan had said, exasperated, when their plans for a more peaceful Sunday were dashed.
“No matter, Jan. We’ll send word they are most welcome for the 21st, but let’s give them different times. That way, each duette—Dampierre with me and Tellier with you—can conduct business without the two of them having contact with one another. N’est-ce pas?”
Jan laughed. “We’ve been here long enough to speak, even privately, in French.” He leaned over to kiss her. “I hope we never lose our Polish—you would have said ‘nie,’ a much softer, sweeter sound coming from your lips.”
“We want nothing untoward to occur, my husband, so let’s remember to play our parts with these men,” she said, and she, too, laughed and returned the kiss.
They had thought themselves clever, she remembered. But not clever enough.
* * *
1379
The day came. Jan and Irina attended Mass at daybreak. The choir and the readings were especially suited for a beautiful September morning, but halfway through the service, the skies opened, and rain pounded the slate tiles above them. It was hard enough to hear Père Dubois’s mumblings of the Latin prayers before the rain started, and the incessant clatter made it impossible. They received Holy Communion as a few drops splattered on the stone floor near the altar, and Irina chastised Jan when he complained about the rain. “It’ll be just another reason for the priest to ask us for money!”
They rode the mile home in the downpour but an hour later, in the midst of a delicious breakfast Velka had prepared for them, the rain stopped as if by design. They breathed a sigh of relief, and even Jan mouthed a prayer of thanks.
Either Dampierre or Tellier had to be the key that mastered the lock of sales to middle and upper rank nobility, they reminded each other. There was nothing so snobbish, so condescending as the denizens of King Charles’s court thinking as one. If just one of them criticized or mocked their work, they would be laughed at all the way back to Paris, but if just the right one of them bought a piece and extolled the virtues of dealing with Chevalle & Companie, success would surely follow.
As expected, Auguste Sainte Tellier arrived one hour after noon. Jan, however, was nowhere to be found. As Tellier and his valet cantered their horses up the long drive, Irina called out to Rosta, “Where is Comte Brezchwa?!”
“Ah, you were not informed, My Lady? He was called to the barns, where his favorite mount came into foal. He said he would remain until the birth had proven successful. What shall I do with his visitor, Madame?”
“Mon Dieu! Have Velka show Monsieur Tellier to the library where he may wait, or he can go to the barn himself if interested.”
“I suspect he will wish to settle himself and take some tea. Perhaps some little cakes?”
“Indeed. See that he is offered what he wishes, Rosta. We did not plan lunch, I regret to say. I will spend a few minutes with him and make Jan’s excuses, but I will need to attend to my own visitor.”
>
“Yes, Madame.”
“Whatever happens, be sure to keep the door closed between the library and the salon, s’il vous plaît.”
Breathing easier, but annoyed with Jan for running off without so much as a word, Irina prepared for her own visitor an hour hence. With her broadest smile and more than a bit of charm, she chatted with Tellier for some minutes before excusing herself. To her relief, he appeared content to wait and, perhaps, nap in the early afternoon sun.
Within a quarter hour, however, Velka rushed into the salon and said, “My Lady, your visitor’s carriage comes up the drive—early. He is almost at the door!”
Instantly nervous, Irina did her best to compose herself, muttering under her breath as she hastened to extend her personal greeting. Monsieur le Duc Maurice Dampierre appeared in all of his finery, dismissed his footman, and presented her with high charm and a most expectant smile. His luxuriantly curled brown hair and fair complexion did little to soften his otherwise conniving countenance.
Becoming even more agitated underneath her welcoming words, Irina blinked her eyes, commanding her best demeanor to return. “Why, Monsieur le Duc, it is so good of you to keep our appointment, even on such a day as this. Let us adjourn to the salon, where we have tea and pastries to help warm us.”
“Indeed, Lady Brezchwa! Let us retreat to a comfortable setting.”
Not twenty minutes into their visit, teacups aside, the duke put a hand on each of Irina’s shoulders, pulling her toward him.
“Monsieur, I thought we’d agreed to show you some of Chevalle’s work.”
“Most certainly, Madame, but might we not blend our visit with an activity more pleasurable?”
“Oh, Monsieur, I could not think of doing so. My husband, le comte, is at this moment in the library—right through there—and might at any moment interrupt us,” she lied.
“I think not, Madame. If he were here, he would have greeted me as a courtier should—as befitting my rank.”
“He is engaged, kind sir, and we must see to our arrangement, if you wish to keep our friendship,” she dared.
“Hah! Your friendship, dear girl, is of little importance to me. I have sampled every female delicacy at the king’s court, even the essence of the king’s own mistress, I might add, and I came this afternoon to taste you.” More than his polite but insistent words, his tone betrayed an entitlement tinged with lust.
She could see in his eyes the pinpoints of a predator about to pounce. She felt very much the sparrow in thrall of a cat toying with its prey. “You mistake me, sir,” she said as lightly as she could manage. “Let us be at our business or you should find your way out.”
Ignoring her words, Dampierre grabbed Irina, spun her around, and bent her forward over one of Chevalle’s beautifully wrought walnut tables. As he lifted her gown, he spat out his words with a smirk she could not see as much as feel. “You will enjoy this, Madame, damn you!” Dampierre’s voice summoned a memory of Tomasz Wodowicz.
While Dampierre busied himself with his buttons, Irina reached for a carved wooden crucifix, the Christ upon it staring at her fixedly, and twisting herself with all the force she could muster, swung the cross, striking Dampierre on the side of the head, a blow so sudden and surprising to him that he backed away, stunned, his instantly flaccid maleness dangling from his velvet pantaloons. He sat himself on the floor with a thump, his silk-clad legs splayed. With his right hand at the side of his head feeling for blood, Dampierre was dazed.
The blow made more noise than damage as it was the flat part of the cross that struck him, and while a mighty bruise might appear under his dressed tresses, there was no blood—only humiliation.
He shook his head, as if to throw off the sting, and stumbled to his feet. When he found his balance, and along with it a snarl, he said, drool forming at the corners of his mouth, “You bitch! Your miserable cunt! I will see to it you are driven from France before the Christmas bells toll the nativity! You are nothing. You and your idiot of a husband would be well to flee France—and soon!” When he realized how ridiculous he looked, he buttoned himself, turned, and marched from the salon.
Irina stood, shaking, her breath coming hard, but even as she set her jaw in anger, she reached for the nearest chair and sat down heavily. As soon as she felt in control of her balance, she put her hands to her face and, with heaving sobs, let the emotional pressure of the encounter find its way out.
She had no idea how long she wept. For the briefest moment, her tears were for the venture lost because of her own moral standard. Everybody at court seems to think that a man forcing himself on a woman was a perfectly normal thing to do. But why do men think we are theirs for pleasure? Worse, why do women accept it as a condition of their existence? What is wrong with me that I couldn’t go along? Then, after another moment, she wiped her eyes, blinked, and sat up straight. There is nothing wrong with me, and whether Jan and I stay here or flee France, I will not be a putain for some pig’s pleasure!
Velka came running in. “Irina, I came as soon as I could. Monsieur Tellier called me to the library. He was very agitated and departed shortly after Monsieur le Duc.”
Irina sat looking at Velka as she spoke but said not a word in return.
“Your eyes are red, Irina. What has happened here?”
“Monsieur Dampierre left suddenly,” she said, debating whether she should tell Velka what actually occurred. “He will not be coming back,” she added, her voice flat.
“Something happened here, Irina. When I went into the library to see if Monsieur Tellier was in need of anything, I’m quite certain he was listening at the connecting door to the salon. Whatever he heard had an effect on him, but then he sat for a moment, sipped his tea, and began to smile—like a bird about to pluck a rodent from the grass. Now, tell me. What did this Dampierre do?”
Irina looked sideways at her servant, her friend. “I will tell you when I have discussed it with Jan. Meanwhile, you are not to say a word to anyone.” She paused, then asked, “Did Jan return from the barns?”
“He did not.”
“And so, he did not speak to Tellier?”
“Not unless they met when Tellier ran out.”
“But Tellier and Dampierre—did they meet or speak?”
“No, Madame.”
“I was just curious, my dear Velka,” she said, exhaling with some finality. Then she muttered, “I suppose it is better Jan was not in the other room.”
“Is there something I can do for you?” Velka asked.
“At this point, dear one, there is nothing anyone can do.”
…
In the tree line across the road running by the gated entrance to Chateau Fournier, a lone horseman stood watching. He was duly impressed with the grand dress of the two men who’d arrived, each with a retainer riding behind, but he was confused as well. Why, he wondered, would guests of this quality not have arrived at the same time for luncheon? Even more mysterious was the manner in which the men departed. The first to depart rode in anger, whipping his horse to the fastest speed it could go, his retainer unable to keep pace. The second man, only a few minutes behind, rode equally hard, but without injury to the horse, and seemed visibly cheerful.
Mostly, the observer was impressed with Chateau Fournier and what he’d heard about the Comte and Comtesse Brezchwa. He watched further, and seeing a familiar woman playing with a small boy on the distant greensward, he smiled with great pleasure. He took one last long look and turned his horse back toward the little village of Giverny, where he’d engaged a room.
“I can be patient,” Tomasz Wodowicz whispered to his mount, and slowly rode away.
…
Rain fell each of the next three days. Most often, the clouds banked and dropped only a drizzle, but on other days, the sky seemed to send unending streams to drench the landscape, making even local travel difficult.
“Why do you say such a thing, my husband?”
“Because I watched him with you at court. I saw his look. I heard some of his words when he thought I could not hear. More, I listened to others—friends of Duke Zygmunt—who warned me to be on my guard—for you—when he hovered too close.”
Irina merely smiled, and looked downward, suppressing tears. Her hands, clasped in her lap, were cold and ghostly white.
Jan lifted her chin with his hand. “And so you see, my dear one, I never for a moment concerned myself that you would allow a creature like Dampierre to work his will with you.”
“Then why,” she began, holding back her annoyance, “did you remain away from the house when he was here?”
“Because, my dear, I knew Tellier would not be very far away. I am so sorry.”
Irina told him what had happened, and watched his face harden. “But he did not intervene even though from what Velka said, he must have heard.”
“For his cowardice, I am saddened, but apologetic—to you.”
“As am I, my husband. How could I have thought he wanted only to appraise the furniture? He had no interest in it whatsoever.” As she said this, they both laughed at their total innocence. “We have been lambs led nearly to the slaughter pen, have we not?”
“As furniture hawkers, we have failed once again,” he said and laughed low like a man consigned to the gallows.
“We can laugh,” she said, putting her arms around him, “but what do we do now?”
…
A day after the rain subsided and Atlantic winds began to dry the earth, a lone rider came through Chateau Fournier’s imposing wrought-iron gates guarding the entrance. He held the horse to a slow, purposeful gait.
Irina Page 40
