Silent Water Page 15

  “What can we do? We don’t even know what made him select the first two. They had nothing in common. Anybody can be next.” With a clutch at my heart, I realized that it could even be Konarski.

  “I will ask the chancellor to order more guards posted around, but I am not sure what else can be done unless we have a clue or a firm lead, which we don’t.”

  “Maybe an announcement should be made?” I suggested. “So everyone is on alert?”

  He shook his head. “It would only cause fear and confusion, and that’s what the king wants to avoid at all costs.”

  We stood in silence for a while. Outside the window the fog had dissipated, and stray snowflakes were now falling languidly toward the flagstones that paved the courtyard. For Helena’s sake, I hoped that the snowstorm prediction was wrong, for it had only been a few hours since she left for her father’s estate.

  A sound of footsteps, enhanced by heavy boots, made us both jump. A moment later, three guards appeared, two of whom took up post directly outside the queen’s apartments, halberds in hand. Konarski showed the third one the door to my chamber, and the guard planted himself there with an impassive expression.

  I turned to Konarski. Before I could say anything, he brought a hand to my cheek, cupping it so gently I could barely feel his fingers on my skin. “You will be fine,” he said reassuringly. Up close, his eyes, which I had previously thought dark brown, had a depth to them in which I could see flecks of amber, like that precious resin found on the shores of the Baltic Sea. “I will make sure of that.”

  I raised my hand to cover his. How I wanted to put my arms around his neck and hold him close, both to give and to receive comfort, for he looked as strained as I felt. But the guards were there, and it would have been unseemly; there was enough gossip going around as it was.

  “Thank you, Sebastian,” I said in a low voice, using his given name for the first time. “And please . . . be careful.”

  “I will.” He smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes.

  He stood watching me as I stepped into my chamber. When I closed the door, I leaned heavily on the dark, iron-studded oak and took a shuddering breath. Outside an early winter night was falling.

  I had woken up that morning still believing myself safe, but now it was clear that my life, Konarski’s life, and possibly even those of the king and the queen, were in danger.

  We were all prey.

  Chapter 11

  January 5th, 1520

  At noon the next day, a solemn mass was celebrated in the cathedral for the souls of Zamborski and Mantovano.

  The interior of Wawel Cathedral was magnificent, with high vaulted ceilings and tall stained-glass windows which, on a sunny day, cast a mosaic of colors onto the walls, the pews, and the floor. It was divided into two parts. The eastern part centered around the main altar, with a triptych altarpiece of gilded wood which depicted scenes of the Last Judgment and the triumph of Good over Evil. It was where the kings and queens of Poland had been crowned for centuries, and the church was so large that the altar seemed dwarfed by the space above. The notes of chants from the white-clad boys’ choir drifted toward that space only to come back as faint echoes reflected off the walls. It was so large, in fact, that despite the hundreds of candles blazing around the apse, the ribs of the ceiling were cloaked in shadows into which the swirls of aromatic incense floated and disappeared.

  The walls of this section of the cathedral were lined with double rows of stalls intricately carved out of dark walnut. It was there that the members of the royal household, including the advisors, secretaries, maids of honor, and ladies-in-waiting were seated. The royal couple occupied the central place in front of the altar on damask-upholstered chairs, both dressed in black, the queen’s somber-colored gown woven with silver thread under a cloak trimmed with sable fur. Stempowski and other high officials sat in the closest stalls, and I had seen the queen send the chancellor a thunderous look as he bowed upon her arrival. The night before, she had been disappointed when I had reported on my conversation in his chambers regarding the killer’s note, but she was still convinced that sooner or later we would find evidence of the chancellor’s guilt.

  In the western part of the cathedral, where there was a smaller altar built over the grave of St. Stanisław, the nave and side chapels were filled to bursting with lesser members of the court, while the staff and servants spilled out into the forecourt. It seemed that all of Wawel’s residents—from the lowliest to the mightiest—had turned up. Some of it was probably curiosity; by then, everybody knew what had happened in the last eleven days. Yet I wondered how many were aware of the risk awaiting them tomorrow night.

  The mass was celebrated by Bishop Konarski. He had commenced by leading a slow procession of priests and deacons from the grave of St. Stanisław, his predecessor on the see and a famed martyr, to the main altar to the chant of the choir. In his white robes, his head topped with a miter and a gilded crozier firmly held in his hand, the bishop looked so authoritative and pious, saintly even, that I could not suppress a smile, remembering what his nephew had told me about his weakness for communion wine and pretty maidservants.

  The smile must still have lingered on my lips when I looked across to where Sebastian Konarski was sitting in his stall and saw him watching me. He did not look away when our eyes met over the candlelit space; instead, he smiled back, perhaps at the same memory, and it was I who looked away first, my face aflame. He had to have noticed that happening to me quite often by now, and I silently chastised myself for acting like a maid in first bloom. I should be poised and levelheaded, as my rank and duties required of me. I straightened my back, vowing not to look in his direction again, and tried to concentrate on the mass.

  During the sermon, a melancholy mood assailed me once again as the bishop’s eloquent, somber words echoed through the cavernous church. They were wise words about how the body turns to dust but the spirit returns to God, and comforting ones about God’s love that made Him send his only Son so that whoever believes in Him shall not die but live eternally. But when he called on anyone—and he paused for a long moment on that word—who may be concealing a dark secret in his heart to confess because God was forgiving and would cleanse those who repented all unrighteousness, I wondered if the man the bishop was addressing was among us. It was very likely that he was. He was someone who had known Zamborski and Mantovano, who had studied their habits and planned their killing, and who was probably getting ready to commit another crime.

  Then the cryptic and chilling message from yesterday’s note echoed in my mind. The killer’s work is justice. To him, the murders were not sin; they were not the greatest transgression imaginable. They were, quite possibly, God’s work. He was mad, convinced of his righteousness, and therefore the bishop’s admonishing words would not stop him, the queen’s ladies’ scared faces would not deter him, and the Princess of Montefusco’s avid eyes sweeping the congregation would not discover him. He was everyone but no one, visible yet hidden, slave to his murderous impulse and free to act on it without anyone getting in his way. But at least in this holy place, surrounded by so many others, we each found a momentary respite, a brief sense of safety.

  The mass lasted nearly two hours. When it was over, the king and the queen exited the cathedral. Bona was followed by the maids of honor, but I had arrived late and found myself among the crowd that began pressing at the massive double door as the bell in the great tower above our heads clanged in one final solemn homage to the victims. When I finally stepped into the frosty air, welcoming it after the closeness of the church, I felt a tap on my shoulder. My nerves were so taut that I instinctively dashed forward, away from whoever was behind me, but as the people were slow in dispersing from the forecourt, I did not have much room for maneuver.

  I felt a hand on my arm, detaining me gently. “It’s all right. It’s only me.” The sound of Konarski’s voice flooded me with relief. “I’m sorry I scared you. You have gone pale,” he said as I
turned to face him.

  At least that was a change from all the blushing I had done so far. “We are all nervous these days.” I smiled weakly.

  “How have you been faring since yesterday? I hope you had a peaceful night.”

  “Peaceful enough under the circumstances,” I said.

  That was not quite true. I had slept fitfully, waking often and imagining I heard footsteps and rustling outside my door. I had two distinct dreams that night. In the first, I followed a cloaked and hooded figure through the castle’s dimly lit corridors. The figure seemed to float in the air ahead of me rather than walk, for it had no feet—it was just a cloak, the way Maciek had described it. I woke up briefly and when I went back to sleep, I was outside my chamber standing behind the cloaked figure as it crouched at my threshold pushing the note under my door. I reached out my hand, and the figure turned. The face that emerged from under the hood was that of Konarski. He winked at me and put a finger to his lips, as if instructing me to keep a secret.

  When I woke up again, it was still dark, and in that confused state between sleep and consciousness, I was convinced that Konarski was the murderer, and I was terrified. But the light of day had dispelled that fear. What possible motive could he have? He was not in need of money, as far as I could see, and he had no wife of whom to be jealous. But could he be the chancellor’s assassin? After all, they did work very closely together. I replayed the meeting in Stempowski’s office in my head and decided that while he was a seemingly exemplary assistant, there was something in Konarski’s demeanor that betrayed a certain impatience, perhaps even annoyance, with the king’s closest advisor, which appeared to go unremarked by the latter. Now as he stood in front of me, his face a picture of gentleness and concern, it seemed like the most ridiculous idea in the world.

  “I will send a page every hour to check on you,” Konarski said, clearly not convinced by my assurances.

  I shook my head. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary.” I knew that making even more fuss about it would only increase my anxiety. “I just wish for a little sunshine.” I glanced up at the gray sky. “I miss the skies over Bari; they can be so clear and blue, even in the middle of winter.” I felt a sudden clutch at my throat, and I was worried that I would start crying.

  Konarski smiled ruefully. “Give it two or three more months, and you will see blue skies over Kraków again.” His hand was still on my arm, and he squeezed it gently in sympathy when he saw tears shimmering in my eyes before I blinked them back.

  “My dear Sebastian!” A jolly voice rang out, and Konarski’s body jerked forward under the force of a mighty slap on his shoulder. If I had not taken a step back, he would have slammed into me.

  He turned, annoyed but also smiling. “Kostek, it is good to see you. It’s been a while.” He greeted a man who emerged from behind his back dressed in a knight’s non-battle uniform: a gambeson and thin chain mail under his cloak, gauntlet gloves in his hands, and a sword buckled at his belt. He was the same height as Konarski and resembled him, but for a lighter shade of hair and eyes that were more hazel than brown. But his nose was equally strong, and he had the same well-defined mouth, although its set was slightly mocking where Konarski’s was typically serious.

  “My cousin, Konstanty Konarski, from the Baranów branch of the family,” my companion introduced him. “Contessa Caterina Sanseverino, the Lady of the Queen’s Chamber.”

  Konstanty—or Kostek, as he must have been known in the family—bowed gallantly, then took my hand and pressed it to his lips in that very Polish gesture of respect for the female sex. “A great pleasure, signora,” he said in a low modulated voice, which I immediately suspected he employed with women in general. “A journey to the court at this time of the year is full of hardship, but meetings like this make it all worthwhile.”

  As he let go of my hand, he gave my figure an appraising glance, which quite mortified me. Next to him, Konarski looked annoyed by his cousin’s display. “What are you doing here?” he asked sharply. “I thought you were with the army at Koło.”

  “Ah!” Konstanty turned to him as if only just remembering. “I was, but Marshal Firlej made me his chief messenger and sent me back here to report to His Majesty that the troops have amassed in full and are ready to move north into Pomesania.”

  “I see.”

  “We were originally set to start moving on the tenth,” he added, “but with the storm approaching, that will likely be delayed.”

  He looked toward the eastern horizon, and we followed his gaze. There, we could see a ridge of darker clouds, which in my southern homeland portended rain, but here and in winter was an unmistakable sign of approaching snow. Across the Wisła, the woods were enveloped in fingers of mist. It seemed that despite the king’s prayers, nature was going to throw an obstacle of its own into the war plans.

  “I thought I would have time to stop by Baranów on my way back,” Konarski’s cousin went on, “to see my new nephew. My sister has just delivered her first babe—on January first, of all days. What precision!” He chuckled. “But the weather would delay me too much. I will be heading back to Koło directly.”

  At this second mention of his family seat, something lit up in my head. “Isn’t Baranów close to Lipiny?”

  “Indeed, it is. Have you been there, signora? It is a beautiful country, very satisfying hunting grounds,” he added with the confident smile of a seasoned hunter—of both game and women, no doubt.

  “I have not, and I’m sure it is beautiful. I am asking because one of the queen’s maids of honor is from there, Helena Lipińska.”

  “Of course!” He beamed. “I know the family well. A fine lineage, though much diminished now. They are descended from the Piasts of Małopolska.”

  I had not known that. Piasts were the dynasty that had ruled Poland before the House of Jagiellon’s ascension to the throne in the year 1386. They had several minor branches that had held the different historical regions of the kingdom as principalities, including Małopolska, or Lesser Poland, whose capital was Kraków. A distinguished line indeed.

  “I was sorry to hear that her father is ailing,” I said. “It sounds like quite a serious matter.”

  “Pan Lipiński, ill?” Konstanty laughed heartily. “Perhaps from indigestion. He likes his venison in the richest sauce his cooks know how to whip up for him.”

  “Oh.” I was confused. “I thought—” I broke off as both men stared at me inquiringly. I did not know what to say, and I did not want to admit that one of my ladies had lied to me.

  “I spent Christmas at Baranów before my banner left to join the marshal at Koło, and Lipiński was among the guests at the feast we gave on the twenty-sixth,” Konstanty explained. “He looked fine to me then. Ate and drank everyone under the table, as always. Gambled too.” Then he added, more seriously, “Unless it was a sudden apoplexy. God save him. Many men his age succumb to it.”

  But I distinctly remembered Helena saying that her father had been ill for weeks. “Perhaps I misunderstood,” I said, not wishing to prolong the subject.

  He gave me another one of his gallant bows. “I regret that I must leave you now, but I have to rush out of Kraków before they close the gates at dusk. I hear they will keep them closed until the storm is over. Cousin—” He turned to Konarski with yet another slap on the shoulder for which Sebastian braced himself this time. “It was nice to see you, however briefly.”

  “Godspeed.”

  “And signora”—Konstanty turned to me one last time—“if you are ever in Baranów, be sure to call on us. I would be happy to show you around and take you for a hunt.”

  I dropped my gaze, too abashed to respond. When I raised my eyes, he was gone.

  “Well,” Konarski sighed, “that was my cousin Kostek. I apologize.”

  “No need. He seems nice.” I smiled, finding Konarski’s own embarrassment endearing.

  Then I remembered Helena, and my smile faded. “Let’s go back.” I started toward the gate,
eager for a refuge from the cold air that was biting at my cheeks.

  “You’re frowning,” he said as we entered the courtyard. “What’s bothering you?”

  I snorted. “Besides the obvious?” Suddenly my anger at Helena’s deception broke through like flood water over a riverbank. I told him, my voice catching at times, about her departure and the false reason she had given for it. I also told him about my suspicions about an affair and a possible pregnancy.

  “I’m sorry you have to deal with this also,” he said sympathetically. “There is enough trouble to go around without one of your ladies adding to it with her ill-timed adventures.”

  “But I cannot help feeling that there is more to it than that.”

  He was silent for some moments, thinking. “Do you believe that she is somehow involved in the murders?”

  “What? No!” I protested. “She doesn’t have a deceptive nature like some of the other girls”—I thought about the illegal books again—“which is why this bothers me so much. Helena, of all people, should have been honest with me. She wouldn’t be the first to get herself into trouble like this. By lying, she is making this much worse, possibly closing the door to ever coming back to the court again.”

  In the entry hall, before we parted in our separate directions, I turned to Konarski, struck by a sudden thought. “But what if the killer is a woman? Have you ever thought about that?” I started to speak quickly. “What if it was not a jealous husband, but a jealous mistress? It wouldn’t surprise me at all if Zamborski had carried on with more than one woman at the same time and was discovered!”

  He laughed. “Don’t let your imagination carry you away, Caterina.” When he saw me frowning, he added, apologetically, “It is an interesting idea, but I just don’t see it. Women are not capable of such violence.”

  I found it hard to believe too. Women were supposed to be weak and timid, soft and nurturing, everything in their nature priming them to give life, not to take it away. And yet, as the queen herself showed, they could be quite ambitious, strong, and forceful in getting what they wanted. Helena, with her equestrian skills and archery prowess, could hold her own, if not against a seasoned knight, certainly against many of the men at the court who were used to comfortable and lazy living. But murder? No, I could not see that either.