Mikolaj 1

so, skip the prologue if you don't want the angst.  a tale of some of Mikolaj's adventures and how he met Malgorzata and why ostensibly they were sent to Russia and then the real reason they were sent to Russia.

Prologue: Poland 1794

It had been a long time since Mikołaj had been part of a gun crew rather than just giving orders; but he hadn’t forgotten the skills.

“I need two volunteers without family to help me man the guns to give the rest of the Raven Banner time to retreat. Seweryn, take my ... your ... people home.” He took off the cabuchon emerald ring he had worn since his father had died, which had a raven incised into the base, to shine white through the green stone and slid it onto his son’s finger.

“Papa!”

“Son, it’s an order. Today I will be with your mother again. Don’t deny me the chance to save our people and join her.”

Weeping bitterly, Seweryn embraced his father, who was dismissing many of the eager volunteers on grounds that they were needed, and prepared to lead the Biały-Kruk legion back to their own lands, abandoning the revolution against Russia.

Mikołaj watched them go.

“My eyeballs are sweating, Jędrek. He’s a good boy; but it’s just us veterans now.”

Jędrek grinned at him.

“Be like old times, my lord.”

Mikołaj grinned back and nodded, a touch on the shoulder more than an embrace between him and his old servant.

They and their volunteers would sell their lives dearly killing Russians, to let the rest of the Biały-Kruk banner escape; his son, Seweryn and his English wife, Phyllis; Joanna his son of a daughter and her Władysław, all the others ...

Kościuszko had fallen; been captured. The rebellion had fallen apart.  The Russians would sweep through anyone remaining.

And he would feast in Heaven beside his beloved Małgorzata, his Gosia, who had lost the long battle with the growths inside her.

Meanwhile they could make the lives of some Russians miserable. He chuckled maliciously at the thought, and how happy that would make Gosia too.

What a good life they had had together! Always the Russian enemy at their door ...

He had not been more than one-and-twenty when it started....

Chapter 1: Poland, 1746

“But my lord ...”

“Are you arguing with me, Towarzysz Krasiński?”

“No, my lord, but ...” said Mikołaj.

“In my book, someone saying ‘but’ is arguing,” said Lord Darowski. “I’ve been asked for an escort to see the Prussian Ambassador’s young daughter into Prussia and delivered to school. Congratulations; by the expedient of your pyrotechnic arrangement, and the unfortunate accident suffered by Lord Jastrzębski, you have been deemed to have volunteered.”

Mikołaj managed not to grin. The unfortunate visitor had left a damp chair after Mikołaj’s pyrotechnic constructions had dipped a little too close to the heads of the senior officers and the visitor. The other officers were sufficiently used to pyrotechnic occurrences not to turn a hair.

“Incognito or armoured and winged, my lord?” said Mikołaj, resigned.

“Oh, armoured and winged; and show these damned Prussians what a good Pole can do,” said Darowski. “Airs above the ground, Cossack riding tricks, whatever it takes. Impress the buggers. I’d have asked you as a favour if I wasn’t able to bring undue pressure to bear on you,” he added. “I don’t have anyone as crazy as a Raven.”

Mikołaj sighed.

“Oh well, these German girls don’t like our Polish style,” he said, with some satisfaction. “I shan’t have to worry about her falling in love with the image of a winged hussar.”

“Laugh all you like; just remember, in Prussia you’ll be exotic.”

Mikołaj snorted.

It was said at court that if a girl had two suitors of equal status and wealth, she would choose the one who dressed in the German fashion and shaved his facial hair. Mikołaj had no intention of changing the way he lived for any girl, and wore a long, silky moustache which had never seen a razor. It was carefully trained to fall well clear of his mouth, and hung in its two silver-gilt parts to his chin.  His silver-gilt hair grew in a strip from front to back, and was held in a queue at the base of his neck, the sides of his head being shaved. The dark tan of his skin contrasted to his light hair, and was an affront to those westernised to the point where they avoided the sun to keep their skin pale. Mikołaj despised them with all his soul.

“I can take Jędrek?

“Yes, of course you must take your man,” said Darowski. “He’s getting your horses ready, and has laid out your armour. The honour of the Rota lies in your hands.”

“Ave, Rotmistrz, morituri te salutamus,” said Mikołaj.

“Oh, get along with you, boy, and remember, if you do die, I’ll court-martial you.”

“Yes, my lord.”           

She thought of herself as Małgorzata, or Gosia, the name her Polish mother had called her. Papa and Aunt Dorota insisted on the German form of her name, Margarete, with the ugly nickname ‘Marusch’ which Papa used. Aunt Dorota was half Polish too, but was fond of her Prussian roots.

Currently Gosia was locked in her room, because she had tried an impassioned plea to her father that if she must go to school that she might at least go to school in Poland, the only home she had known. Papa had insisted that it was time for her to learn to be a Prussian madchen, not some wild half-Cossack. The banishment to her room was for asking him why he had married Mama if he despised everything about her.

Gosia went to her window. She had considered many times climbing down, and each time had balked. At least they had not locked her up before she had made certain modifications to the coach currently being loaded with all she was supposed to need for her three years in exile in Prussia. And Gosia had made other preparations with smuggled and downright stolen items of clothing, though she  had always left gold.  The heavy panniers of her gown hid a multitude of things, including a satchel hung from her waist; and that she was wearing breeches. She was wearing a riding habit, a precaution her father had agreed on, that she might exercise on her horse at times on the journey, it being led behind the coach for the most part. The jacket over breeches might be disguise enough if she had the chance to escape; and she had Polish clothes with her.

Gosia looked out of the window, hearing the sound of hoofs on the cobbles without.

Mother of Poland, they sent a hussar! She thought, as the fabulous red-clad, armoured figure with wings trotted to the front of the house, a man in attendance. Gosia always loved to see the hussars parade; they were so magnificent! 

And then the winged hussar looked up, and their eyes met.

Gosia gasped. His eyes were as blue as a summer sky, and as merry as any peasant boy wetting his sweetheart on Wet Monday.  He had the most magnificent moustache which managed to be both fulsome and yet not to conceal his sensitive mouth. How kissable ...

What was she thinking of! Gosia felt her face grow hot at such an errant and most improper thought.

In return the winged hussar was staring at her as if he had been turned to stone.

“I don’t think I’m wicked enough to turn you into a pillar of salt,” said Gosia.

He pulled himself together, and quickly saluted.

“My lady ... er, I forget your name, I’m not good at German,” he fumbled for words.

“Małgorzata is my name, a good Polish name,” said Gosia.

He stared.

“Oh! I am supposed to escort some German wench,” he said, sounding disappointed. “I do beg your pardon; I thought it was you.”

“Grammar aside, it is me, I am half-Prussian,” she said.

“Which half?” he quipped and then blushed. “I do beg your pardon,” he added hastily.

“Since I think of myself as Polish, I suspect the German part must be the bottom half,” said Gosia with a straight face.”

He blushed again.

“Er ... I’d better knock,” he said.

Gosia withdrew and used the utensil; she did not want to have to do so in the coach in front of Aunt Dorota. Not with all the extra things she had under her gown.

Presently the door was unlocked and Aunt Dorota opened it.

“Your escort is here; only one man and his servant,” she said, in disapproval. “A single hussar.”

“Oh, well, a single hussar is an army on his own,” said Gosia. “Being Polish and hence a bohatyr.”

“You will forget such nonsense in Prussia,” said Dorota. “And all those unseemly Polish ideas.”

“I will never forget that I am Polish,” said Gosia.

Mikołaj was wondering how he had become so flustered by a pair of wistful smoky eyes. They seemed almost too large for the kittenish face, framed by soft waves of golden hair, touched with red in places in the morning light. The corona of hair was too heavy for the child, made her look crushed by it. He was also wondering why his heart had lightened that she had admitted to being the one he was to escort. He would, after all, hardly see much of her, when she was inside the carriage and he riding along on the outside. He stood in the vestibule whilst Jędrek held their horses, smarting under the sneering look of the Prussian in his stupid wig. Mikołaj permitted himself to sneer back. He almost laughed out loud when the fellow got out a quizzing glass.

“I know a good oculist if you have trouble seeing me, as large and as bright as I am,” he rumbled. Mikołaj stood two inches over six feet in his stockinged feet. The metal heels of his hussar boots added another inch, even though he held his helmet under one arm, so its plume did not add even more height. His armour added to the breadth of his shoulders, and his scarlet kontusz shimmered with silken threads shot with gold, his kontusz sash a thing of beauty in white, green and gold, holding the individuality of his heraldic colours.

“I can see, but as usual, can scarcely believe,” said the Prussian, who considered himself a tall man at six feet.

“Few are privileged to have the time to do so before they face their maker,” said Mikołaj.

The Prussian flushed a dull scarlet; the implicit threat was not to be taken lightly.

“And might I enquire who is here to escort my daughter? I hope your lineage is suitable.”

“Alas, no, your lineage does not match mine,” said Mikołaj. “But we Poles are hospitable people, so even one of my standing is sent to see to the escort for your daughter, as you represent a power in keeping with my own heritage. I am first son of the banner Biały-Kruk, Mikołaj Krasiński is my name and we trace our line to a daughter of Bolesław III Wrymouth.” He managed to sound bored, and took off his glove, ostensibly to examine his nails, something of an insult in itself.

The Prussian almost boiled over.

“Papa, if you and the Winged Hussar have finished playing street games with each other, I am ready,” said Gosia.

Her father glared at her.

“You are rude, and have no understanding of matters,” he said loftily.

Mikołaj was openly grinning.

“Oh, I don’t know, I think she understood very well what we were up to,” he said. “My lady.” He swept her a deep bow, Polish fashion, not western, sweeping his helmet across his body with the seeming effortless ease most would do with a lightweight fur hat, bending low towards the ground. He took her hand to kiss the air above the knuckles. His right hand being ungloved, and Gosia not having yet pulled on her own gloves it was a meeting of flesh to flesh, and Gosia found herself staring at him at the thrill that went through her, for once lost for words.

“Put your gloves on, girl!” hissed Dorota, adding something sotto voce about barbarians.

“Barbarian! How splendid; but I have my faults too,” said Mikołaj, who had plainly heard.

Dorota burned; he must have ears like a cat.

“Allow me, my lady,” said Mikołaj, taking Gosia’s gloves, and helping her on with them. There was no more contact of skin but somehow it felt very intimate. “We Ravens  are generally held to be urbane, but we do know when to stop being urbane and to become ... barbarians. And as I speak a number of languages, even the more uncouth ones, I am chosen to venture into Prussia as your escort. You need fear nobody whilst I ride at your side, though I fear I cannot offer to kill dragons for you. Krakus killed the last dragon in Poland, so they are a little scarce.”

Małgorzata chuckled.

“Fool,” she said.

“I live but to please,” said Mikołaj.

“It’s too late to get a replacement, I suppose,” said the Prussian. “I prefer you not to speak with my daughter more than necessary.”

Mikołaj looked down his nose at him.  He might not have the magnificent nose of Hryhor Sokołowski, the dour friend of Mikołaj’s father, but he knew how to use the assets he had.

“My Rotmistrz would wonder why you refuse one of the two who are the best of the best,” he said. “My friend Walenty being the other. But he has no tact. The lady is ready; was there any further reason to delay?”

There was no further reason to delay, and Mikołaj left with a grin at the horror on the face of the Prussian ambassador at the idea of dealing with someone considered by the Raven warrior to have no tact.

“You have a most wicked sense of humour,” hissed Gosia at the hussar.

He beamed at her.

“Someone has to make up for tripe-in-oil with sour milk accompanying you,” he said.

Gosia found she had to have a coughing fit to cover the laughter at his apt description of her aunt.

She got into the coach. Sitting was not entirely comfortable, but she dared not adjust her attire too much in front of her aunt.

Dorota got out her tambour frame, and motioned to Gosia to do the same. Gosia got out her own embroidery.  Her embroidery bag also contained a number of items which would have shocked Dorota, had she rummaged below the silks.

Gosia sat patiently embroidering, letting the morning melt into the afternoon, and a stop for a late luncheon at an inn.  The presence of a winged hussar got them a private parlour without a question asked, those currently occupying it hustled out.  If looks could kill, Lord Krasiński would be dead, but he sneered most beautifully at the western-clad szlachta.

And then they were back on the road, and Gosia was starting to become nervous. Had she not done enough?  had her best efforts been in vain? the road was full of potholes, she had had to put away her embroidery for fear of spoiling it, and even Dorota had given up, adjuring Gosia to recite poetry from  memory instead.  She glared when Gosia recited some of the poetry of Field Hetman Rzewuski but said nothing. She knew that her niece was more than capable of stumbling over German poetry and making a travesty of it if she felt like it, and getting through a journey without a quarrel was probably wise.

And then, the wheels dipped in a particularly deep rut or pothole, and the coach lurched, falling to one side. A loud snapping noise was heard, and the rear of the coach settled hard, backwards.

“Good God, what has happened!” cried Aunt Dorota.

“I rather fancy the coach has suffered an accident,” said Gosia.