Silent Water

by P K Adams

  “It will require more plowing,” the queen responded, “and I will ensure that I have enough men, oxen, and plows to do so. In fact, there is a new type of plow that can help make the process faster. I am having one sent to me for inspection. It should be here next month.”

  “It will take years to see benefits from the scheme Your Majesty proposes,” the chancellor said with due deference, but he was unable to hide his satisfaction at pointing that out. “None of it will help raise the funds for the artillery Marshal Firlej believes is needed now.” It was his turn to look triumphant as he turned to the king. He, too, was confident.

  “That is true,” the queen retorted, “but the treasury, depleted though it is, can surely withstand the cost of sending a few cannon north. In the meantime, you can start by making changes that, come harvest time, will already bring enough extra revenue to reimburse the Crown.” This time there was no doubt as to whom she had in mind. “For example, you can collect more dues in coin rather than in kind. That is what I did last year.”

  And just like that, she made everyone in that chamber unable to contradict her. The king could not deny that the funds could be advanced, while the chancellor and the deputies could no longer claim that there was no way of raising additional money. It would be the equivalent of saying that they did not want to make improvements on their estates that were likely to result in higher profits—and more income for the Crown—in the long run. But most of all—and that was the master stroke—she had joined forces with Łaski. The archbishop was a rabid anti-Habsburg who also happened to be one of the only top clerics to support a greater taxation of ecclesiastical estates. If Stempowski so much as mentioned the light burden of taxation on the Church, I had no doubt the archbishop would offer to share the burden.

  The chancellor’s face darkened, and the deputies looked disconsolate. The prospect of having to reorganize the way their families had farmed for centuries was becoming real, as was the fact that any rewards for that inconvenience would be eaten up by a new levy.

  But I could see that the king liked the proposal, though he was careful not to be overtly enthusiastic about it. “It is an idea worth considering,” he stated diplomatically, then he turned to Firlej. “Prepare a cost estimate for the use of the cannon you need, marshal. And before we authorize the funds, we will wait for your report from the field. We will only send the artillery if the campaign stalls. Go with God, and may He bless your effort.”

  It was a typical way the king made decisions—satisfying few but offending few also. Instead, I saw some dark glances, not least that of Chancellor Stempowski, trailing after the queen as we left the chamber. I knew that, whatever the outcome, she would be seen as the power behind the throne—or the power itself.

  When we returned to the queen’s apartments, Bona wanted to play a game of chess. She sent for the Princess of Montefusco, who played well enough to be entertaining but not so well that the queen would not win most of the time.

  Portia set up the chessboard by the hearth, where a log fire was blazing briskly, spreading the refreshing scent of pine throughout the sitting chamber. Only half of the candles were lit in the sconces in each corner, giving it a warm but subdued light, and the queen ordered music to be played. Helena was the most accomplished musician of us all; she picked up a lute, seated herself by one of the two mullioned windows, tilted her head to one side, and began to pluck the strings, filling the air with the high sentimental notes of La Villanella.

  In the meantime, Magdalena was pouring wine into Venetian glass goblets, talking in a low but excited voice to Lucrezia, who was arranging honey cakes on a tray. It was the usual idle chatter, but I pricked up my ears when I heard the name Sebastian Konarski. Magdalena was telling Lucrezia that he was the youngest of three brothers and had two sisters besides, though none of them served at the court, as far as she knew. He, on the other hand, had been with His Majesty for four years and was thirty years old.

  “The perfect age for a man”—she gave a sigh—“when he has reached full maturity, but his stomach has not yet begun to strain the buttons of his doublet.”

  They covered their mouths with their hands to stifle a burst of laughter, and I asked myself how Magdalena had managed to learn so much about the king’s junior secretary in just two days.

  As the queen and princess seated themselves at the chessboard, the latter inquired about the war council. The queen limited herself to mentioning the cost concerns and the king’s unwillingness to raise a poll tax, especially on Jewish merchants. They played in silence for a while as the rest of us listened to the music and night fell outside. By the time Helena moved on to a livelier piece by Francesco Canova da Milano, the queen’s favorite composer, the princess was losing. I could see that she was distracted. As I wondered what new piece of gossip was on her mind—for it could not have been the nuances of funding the Teutonic war—she lost her second rook, and her queen was in peril.

  Contemplating her next move, the princess said, “His Majesty’s concerns remind me of something I’ve heard . . .” She leaned forward, her eyes shining conspiratorially in her over-rouged face. She even lowered her voice to enhance the dramatic effect of what was to follow, although not so low that all of us could not hear her loud and clear. “They say Zamborski was killed by a Jew.”

  Helena’s fingers slipped on the strings, the sudden disharmony ringing in our ears as she murmured an apology. Portia made a quick sign of the cross and kissed her golden crucifix.

  The queen lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “Who says that?” she asked as Helena resumed playing, more softly than before.

  “My maid told me last night when she brought me my bed warmer. She said the servant quarters talk about nothing else, and most of them agree it was a disgruntled Jew.” She nodded vigorously, leaving us with no doubt as to where she stood on that. “They bring their goods to the delivery area, and they know that passageway well. And—as His Majesty said—they are still angry at the higher taxes. It makes sense.”

  I tried—and failed—to see the point of killing a courtier, especially one unconnected to the king’s tax-collecting authorities, to protest the kingdom’s fiscal policies. I looked at the queen. She, too, was thinking, the game forgotten, a skeptical frown marring her forehead.

  “But what would a Jew be doing about the castle on a day when we were celebrating the birth of Our Savior?” she asked, and I shifted my gaze to the princess.

  “Why, murdering a king’s man, of course!”

  I groaned inwardly and saw a shadow of irritation pass over the queen’s face. She had little patience for her cousin.

  “Your Highness,” I said, my tone duly deferential. “I think what Her Majesty is saying is that the merchants would have delivered their goods days before the feast, rather than when we were all already at the table.” The queen nodded, and I went on, “There would have been no way for any of them to be here on Christmas Day without arousing suspicion. If a Jew had wanted to kill Zamborski, he would have chosen a different day.”

  The princess shrugged, her face assuming a look of offended indifference. All she had wanted was to share a piece of gossip, and she was clearly disappointed that it had not had the desired effect.

  She would have been more satisfied later than night, for when I went into the girls’ bedchamber, I found them gathered in a knot around Helena’s bed, debating vigorously in their nightgowns. They fell silent as I walked in and took stock of their flushed faces and shining eyes.

  “It seemed fanciful what the Princess of Montefusco said today, and your point was well taken, signora,” Helena said to me. “But we have been wondering—what if it is true?” A look of anxiety stole over her face.

  “I do not believe it,” I said. “You should not excite yourselves with such speculations, especially at this hour. Go to bed.”

  “I believe it!” It was Magdalena. Color rose to her face as it contorted with fear and hatred. “It is well known that Jews drink the blood of Christian ch
ildren at Christmas.”

  I felt their eyes turn to me, but I kept mine on Magdalena. I remained deliberately silent to give her time to think about what she had said. But she only raised her chin defiantly and, realizing that I was not going to back her, looked fiercely about to find support elsewhere. None of them spoke, although some heads nodded timidly.

  “Pan Zamborski’s body showed no sign of being drained of blood,” I said, trying to keep the memory of the corpse in the crypt at bay. “And besides,” I added pointedly, “he was not a child.”

  Lucrezia burst out laughing, but she went quiet when I sent her what I hoped was a withering look. Magdalena blushed again but did not back down. “I still think it was a Jew.”

  I sighed. “Go to bed. I want the candles put out by the time the cathedral bell strikes midnight.” Which, I hoped, would not be long.

  There was no point in arguing this any further. In truth, none of us had any idea who the murderer was. It could have been anyone who had ever set foot inside the castle, Jew or not.

  Chapter 6

  December 28th, 1519

  “Donna Caterina.”

  It was still dark outside, but I was already dressed and on my way to the queen’s chamber. Bona liked to rise before dawn, when most of the castle was still quiet.

  The voice startled me amid the silence, but its familiar sound was reassuring. I turned to find Secretary Konarski walking toward me, past the guard who waved him through.

  “Good morning.” I made a small curtsy and was mortified to feel the heat of a blush rise to my face. Silently, I thanked God the gallery was still dim with only a few small torches set in the brackets. Just in case, I did not move from the shadowed alcove where I had stopped.

  Konarski returned my curtsy with a bow. I wondered what had brought him to the queen’s apartments so early, as he did not seem to be in a hurry and was not carrying his customary sheaf of papers.

  Perhaps he read that question on my face, for he hesitated, and I thought I saw slight color come out in his cheeks. But that may have been a trick of the light and shadow playing on his features. “I—I have come to inform you that an arrest has been made in connection with Pan Zamborski’s murder. I know Her Majesty has an interest in the case.”

  “Oh.” I tried to gather my thoughts. “So fast.” In the back of my mind, I wondered why he would need to bring this news to us at such an early hour. Unless the suspect was someone connected to our household. The thought made my heart flutter with sudden anxiety. “Who is he?”

  “A servant. A burly young fellow who helps with unloading deliveries. He was found skulking about the passageway last night, long after his work was done,” he added when I did not respond.

  “Oh,” I said again, trying to make sense of this information. Zamborski was killed near the delivery entrance, so it would not be surprising if someone working there was responsible. A servant was always in need of coin, and a fine dagger would fetch a handsome price, not to mention the money stolen from the purse. A quick and neat solution to the case.

  Except he had been arrested for being there two nights after the murder.

  “Do you believe him to be the culprit?” I asked, conscious of the skeptical note in my voice.

  Konarski hesitated again. “I don’t know.” I almost smiled at how diplomatic he was. “He will be interrogated, and we must trust that the truth will come out.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “In Baszta Sandomierska,” he said.

  The baszta, or tower, stood at the foot of Wawel Hill on the southern side of the castle. It was a royal jail, and a place with a history as grim as its appearance. It was a tall and narrow brick structure with slit windows that admitted little light into the cells inside. During the previous century, it had infamously housed several city councilors in the wake of the murder by a group of Kraków burghers of a magnate who had assaulted a local craftsman for the poor quality of a piece of work he had ordered. The councilors were beheaded after a swift trial, but they were said to be innocent of any involvement in the crime. It was rumored that their souls still haunted the tower, pulling on chains in empty cells, jangling keys on their hooks, and causing candles to light up or extinguish of their own accord.

  The prospect of setting foot in that place made me queasy. But I was overcome by a feeling, similar to the one I had experienced after the visit to the crypt, that it did not make sense. For one thing, catching somebody at the scene of the crime two days after it had been committed was hardly proof of his involvement. And then there were the queen’s suspicions regarding the chancellor. If she was correct, this arrest might serve as a distraction from the true perpetrator of the murder. I knew the queen would be very interested in this development, and if I managed to find a way to get into the jail and speak with the arrested man, I might bring her some valuable information.

  It was a daring idea, of course; it was not my place to question anyone intended to be brought before the king’s justice. Yet I had to give it a try. The way things were going with Helena, my future in the queen’s household seemed more precarious than ever. Helping Bona and having her gratitude, I reasoned quickly, might go some way toward strengthening my position and shielding me from the consequences of my ineptitude in supervising the maids of honor.

  “Panie Konarski,” I addressed the secretary with the polite Polish appellation. “I must see this man.”

  He looked at me as if I had spoken in some unknown tongue. In his expression, I read the same reasons I should not do this as had just crossed my own mind.

  “It is not a place for a lady—”

  I seized his arm. “Please,” I entreated him.

  “The chancellor will never grant you permission to see him,” he said reasonably, taking hold of my hand but not removing it.

  “I know he will not. Which is why I am not going to seek it.” My mind was working fast, even as I was acutely conscious of his touch. “But you can take me there; you have the authority as a royal secretary.” I squeezed his arm until my own fingers hurt, the leather of his doublet soft and yielding but the muscles underneath it taut. “You can tell them I am his sister.”

  Konarski laughed, a small and indulgent sound. It was an outlandish idea, and we both knew it. I withdrew my hand. “Please,” I repeated, and the warmth rose to my face again. But I did not avert my eyes. “Help me have a few words with him. It won’t take long.”

  We stood like that for a few moments, our faces only inches apart, and I recalled all the feminine wiles my girls employed to perfection to wrap this courtier or that around their fingers. I possessed no such talent, so I just held his gaze, my breath coming fast between my lips. What would Magdalena or Lucrezia do?

  Konarski stepped back, and I could see his Adam’s apple working under the skin of his throat as he swallowed. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said in a low voice, then a small smile crossed his lips. “But you will have to dress more plainly than that.” He gestured toward my bodice of blue satin trimmed with lace, over which hung several strings of creamy pearls. Then he turned on his heel and walked away before I could throw my arms around him in gratitude.

  As I watched him disappear around the corner, I was glad I had not done it, but also vaguely disappointed.

  I relayed Konarski’s message about the arrest to the queen. She dismissed it as an attempt by the chancellor to blame his crime on someone else, as I had expected she would. When I offered to visit the tower to find out more, she gave me leave but warned me to be discreet about it.

  Konarski, having concerns of his own, arranged it exactly that way. The next morning, he sent me a note instructing me to meet him by the gate to the queen’s private garden an hour before vespers. Mindful of his suggestion, I put on the only linen gown I had, removed my pearls, earrings, and my headdress so that my hair was covered only by a white coif. But my two winter cloaks were lined with marten fur and had silver clasps at the neck; one of them, a gift from the queen, was studded with
small turquoises. In the end, I borrowed a woolen cloak that fastened with strings from one of the chambermaids, but I made sure to attach a purse with silver ducats in it to my belt in case we had to bribe the guards to get inside. At the appointed time, I took a servants’ staircase down and left by a side door.

  The secretary was waiting for me at the end of a narrow passage that connected the courtyard with the garden, the expression on his face eloquent in his skepticism of my undertaking. I pushed down my hood and spread the folds of my cloak to reveal my modest attire, and he gave me a curt nod of approval that nonetheless sent a vein in my throat pulsing. I pulled the hood back on as he cleared his throat and turned to open the gate with a key he fished out of a pocket inside his cloak.

  The garden was in the Italian style, with flower beds laid out like the squares of a chessboard, a marble fountain in the center, carved stone benches along the gravel paths, and a trellised loggia which, in the summer, was shaded by the leaves and flowers of the rose bushes that entwined it. It was the queen’s favorite retreat when she was not away hunting in Niepołomice, for it reminded her of the gardens surrounding the palace in Bari, where she grew up. But the plants were bare now, and the ground was covered with patches of grayish snow that we tried to step around as we cut to the far side. Konarski unlocked a small iron-studded door in the outer wall, and I admired how efficient and quick he was about it for a scribe who spent most of his time copying court documents. Within moments we were outside the castle.

  “We must hurry.” I looked up at the sky. Out in the open it was still light enough, but the shadows of the night would be rising soon.

  “Darkness favors us, signora,” Konarski said, and I realized that he was right. If someone spotted us, we would have much explaining to do. He lifted a small unlit lantern I had not previously noticed. “For the way back.” He grinned, and I found myself smiling back.