Chapter 1
“Are you comfortable, my lady?” the big, blond, one-time hussar
asked Phyllis. They spoke Latin, being a language they had in common.
“Yes, my lord, thank you, I like Polish clothing,” said
Phyllis. “And I am not uncomfortable riding after the fashion of a man.”
He nodded.
“Good. As we trot, you
should stand in the stirrup and rise and fall with the horse; it makes it less
painful for you and the horse. And if
you can manage that, we shall not have to amble back to Warszawa like an
old maid’s picnic party.” His smile
robbed the words of any sting.
Phyllis tried it, and was amazed. Why had nobody told her about
this before?
The big man, Lord Seweryn, chuckled.
“The look on your face is quite priceless,” he said.
“I wish I had known this a long time ago,” she said, in
chagrin.
“It cannot be done with a woman’s saddle, and I doubt anyone
thought to tell you,” he said. “You will
still be saddle-sore. You will want a
hot bath and to use horse liniment on all muscles south of the waist when we stop,
overnight and when we get there.”
“Thank you,” said Phyllis, blushing.
Phyllis Wicksawl had been through a number of shocks.
She was used to travelling, because of her father’s position as
an ambassador; she endured her companion, Miss Devon, and she was hoping to
learn some Polish at least from her Polish maid before they got to Warsaw.
And then there had been an attack of bandits, who had stolen
all their travelling money and horses, killed the coachman and burned the
coach. And had not Phyllis managed to
take a mouthful of water from a canteen to simulate drooling, and cried out
inarticulate nonsense words, throwing herself into contortions, they might all
have been despoiled as well. As it was, the superstitious bandits left them
helpless at the side of the road.
Here they had been rescued by a pair of Polish noblemen, one of
whom turned out to be a woman, something
Phyllis only discovered after the young woman, a girl much her own age, had
been wounded when the warriors, including the girl, went after the brigands.
And Miss Devon had behaved disgracefully, haranguing the poor man who was in
fear of his betrothed wife’s life, and it should not have mattered if the girl
had been a boy and his little brother as they had originally thought.
Phyllis had been loaned male Polish clothing, which was very
comfortable, as they were expecting to ride to Warsaw – Warszawa, she said
carefully to herself – and none of the horses had side saddles. Miss Devon had been difficult about that,
too.
Then a search party had turned up, with her father, and a Lord
Seweryn Krasiński, of the banner of Biały-Kruk, which meant white raven, who
was known to Lord Wojciech, the Lord who had rescued them. When a party was seen approaching, he had
positioned himself on the bridge, preparing to die for the women he had under
his protection if it had been bandits not her father and his escort.
Phyllis had been sick with relief to see Wojciech and Seweryn
embrace like brothers.
And her new friend, Irene, or Walenty when she was being a boy,
had talked very fast to Phyllis’ father to allow her to act as Lord Seweryn’s
page for a while, under the eye of his mother, since the political situation in
Poland was shaky. Irene had been taught to fight, and to ply a sword, and pose
as a boy on the orders of her mother, and it had kept her safe, running away
from a wicked uncle, and straight, it seemed, into her Wojciech’s heart.
Phyllis stole a look at Lord Seweryn, nibbling on a lock of her
own dark curls as she did so.
He was a large man, but that did not imply fat. Indeed if he
had an ounce of surplus flesh on him, Phyllis could not imagine where he would
keep it. He was not quite as tall as his friend Wojciech, but it was not by
much, and he seemed more imposing. His
hair was long, but worn loose under a fur hat, and was so pale a blond it was
almost silvery in the spring sunshine.
He had a moustache the same colour, which was full, and turned up at the
ends. It looked softer than the few moustaches she had seen, and Phyllis suspected
that his lip had never been shaved. His complexion was naturally pale, but it
was plain he was used to be outside much of the time. And when he turned to
look at her, he had eyes as blue as the sky.
“I think it is my best side,” he said, gravely, and she could
not resist laughing. “Surely Wojciech has not withheld sustenance that you have
to eat your own hair?”
She flushed.
“It’s a bad habit,” she said.
“One you must lose if you wish to be a boy,” he said. “Boys do
not nibble their hair.”
“I wouldn’t know; my brother wears his hair powdered and caught
in a bag,” she said. “He is at university. I have not yet put my hair up to
powder it.”
“It seems a shame to hide it under powder,” said Seweryn. “We
shall be cutting it, you know, to be a page. And shorter, perhaps, than if it
were not curly. Wojciech endured a lot
of teasing about his curls, and you will have enough to do without having to
handle extra teasing.”
“Thank you,” said Phyllis.
“We will also need to give you a name,” said Seweryn. “Are there any Polish male names you
dislike?”
“I don’t really know any Polish male names except Wojciech and
Seweryn,” said Phyllis. “Oh, and Walenty, which Irene uses.”
“The only name near to yours is Filip, but I’m not fond of it,”
said Seweryn. “I am tempted to call you ‘Kazimierz’, he who destroys peace, for
I am sure having a page will be most unrestful.”
“I am sorry if I am a burden to you,” said Phyllis, stiffly.
“Perhaps my father would reconsider and would wait to send me to Lady Irene.”
“Oh, it should be interesting,” said Seweryn. “I will have a
bet with myself over how many of my sisters fall in love with a beautiful young
man in my service.”
“You aren’t going to tell them?”
“Certainly not; it rather defeats the object of the exercise of
keeping you secret and safe, and they’d want to drag you off to talk about
English fashions as compared to Polish.”
“Oh, I see,” said Phyllis. “I don’t know if I can remember
Kasimierz.”
“You did then and beautifully.
We could go with the theme of Phyllis meaning ‘leafy’ in Greek and call
you Jacenty, which means ‘Hyacinth’.”
“And it’s a male name?”
“Yes, so was the original St. Hyacinth.”
“I quite like that.”
“The pet names are Jacek and Jacús.”
“I like Jacek better.”
“Noted.”
“And Jacenty makes me think of Walenty, like Irene.”
“Then it is decided. And we will call you Jacenty Sroka,
magpie, because you are mimicking a boy and magpies are great mimics.”
“Very well. Why do you dislike the name ‘Filip’, and do you
dislike ‘Phyllis’?”
“I dislike my brother-in-law, whose name it is; he is a stuffy
fool and I wager he has been middle-aged since he first got fuzz on his upper
lip. I have no prejudice against your
name, and rather expect you to turn into a dryad or wood nymph. But that’s too
thorough a classics tutor for you.”
“I’d rather be thought of as a wood nymph than middle-aged,”
said Phyllis, candidly. “Why did your sister marry someone like that?”
“Oh she thinks him a fine fellow,” said Seweryn. “He is second
lick-spittle to the chief toady to the undersecretary of someone
important. He didn’t even do the
military service in the army which is an unspoken expectation of szlachta.”
“It’s sort of expected of second sons in England, because the
oldest is supposed to learn about handling his lands,” said Phyllis. “The army
or the navy. You didn’t mention the navy, is it not something szlachta do?”
“You are learning very well how to pronounce our words! No, we don’t have a navy any more; we did for
a while when we had a king who was of the Wasa family, but the Danes sank it a
hundred and fifty or so years ago.”
“And you did not build another?”
“Szlachta are deeply suspicious of any surface which moves all
the time,” said Seweryn. “Besides, where would one put wings?”
Phyllis laughed.
“Some people are not cut out for military service,” she said.
“Filip is not cut out for anything which does not involve
shoving his nose ... er, drooling on the boots of anyone he thinks more
powerful than he is. And Milena tries to
run my life and spends all her leisure time making me meet girls she considers
suitable. Then she cries at me if I say
things like ‘suitable for what, target practice?’. She has no sense of humour.
She won’t like a page who does I am afraid.”
Phyllis had chuckled.
“Can I do all the wicked things my brother used to do, then, if
I’m a page?”
“You can; I should say that you may not, but I’m not about to
be a spoilsport. Er ... what sort of , things did you have in mind?”
“Sewing together the sleeves of nightgowns, short-sheeting
beds, wax on the ends of pens, oh and I must get some dark sealing wax and make
a wax removable ink-blot.”
“Your brother sounds as though he was a pest; well, if I catch
you, I’ll punish you. Uh ... unless I am
at outs with my sister and feel like a laugh. Don’t get too carried away; as we
say here, a wolf may carry away its prey many times but at last is taken.”
“Oh, we would speak of the pitcher going too often to the
well,” said Phyllis. “May I scare off the women she pokes at you? I think that’s a cruel thing to do with a brother,
even when your brother calls you Filbert because Hazel trees are called
Filberts after the Greek Phyllis who killed herself and turned into a nut
tree. Mama didn’t know the story, but of
course Edmund does.”
“I think you are fond of Edmund, even though he teases you.”
“Yes, he is a year older than me, and we have always been good
friends. We shared a tutor, but Papa
said Edmund must go to university, so the tutor would not teach just me, and
Papa engaged Miss Devon. I would rather have Mr. Pritchard back. I like
learning and I never fired ink pellets at him in class. But I can use a
catapult.”
“You sound enterprising and resourceful, and I could think of a
few uses for a catapult.”
“Wasps,” said Phyllis. “Big wasps. If you catch a few and let
them loose and then fire cherry stones from a catapult, most people think
they’ve been stung. It’s a riot at a
garden party.”
“It’s not just your brother who is a pest,” said Seweryn.
“You laughed though; I saw your moustache twitch,” said
Phyllis.
“My moustache has a reprehensible sense of humour; I assure you
that behind it I remained quite unmoved save to be shocked by such doings,”
said Seweryn.
“Now that is a very tall story,” said Phyllis. “Do you have any brothers? Are your other sisters married?”
“You have to be aware that there’s a big gap between me and my
next sister, Janina,” said Seweryn. “She’s nineteen and betrothed; her young
man has gone into trade to recoup his family fortunes, which Milena thinks is
terrible, and I consider rather enterprising.
Magdalena ...” he hesitated. “Poor Magdalena, she is seventeen, she took
a long time to be born, and is a little ... slow. Johanna is impatient and twits her. She’s
well-read but I consider her sly.
Mariola is fourteen, a year younger than Johanna, and is harmless
enough, she is at the gawky stage. She’s
musical, as is Barbara, who is twelve, but Mariola enjoys her music and Barbara
wants to make sure everyone appreciates hers, if you take my meaning.”
Phyllis nodded.
“Your sisters do not sound prepossessing,” she said,
tentatively. “Magdalena is my age, and
it is not her fault.”
“No, I try very hard with Magdalena,” said Seweryn. “I blame it on the governess Mama had for
them when she was ill having Elżbieta, who is eight, and was dreadfully sickly.
She’s rather spoilt, and is horse-mad, from having been limited in what she was
allowed to do. Before her is my
favourite, Ida, or Idżka. She loves learning for its own sake, and she’s
spirited. I’m going to see if I can’t get Mama to foster her out with Wojciech
and Irenka when they’ve been married for enough time for it not to be an
imposition. And the youngest is
Kararzyna, who is a sturdy whelp, and a little too fond of how pretty she is.”
“I feel exhausted just hearing about them!”
“Now you see why I tend to spend time away from home,” said
Seweryn. “But I cannot find myself as happy with the Ulans as I was with the
Winged Hussars. And I will probably take
myself off to find my friends from time to time and join with them. And whether you get left behind or manage to
sneak out with me will depend on your good sense and ingenuity, brat.”
“I don’t think I want to charge with a lance,” said Phyllis.
“Oh, I won’t insist on it; Irenka is outside of anyone’s
definition of normal,” said Seweryn. “Terrifying girl, but I love her like a
sister. Would swap her for most of them,
too,” he added. “But then, Wojciech is a brother to me.”
“Well, I will see about being your brother too,” said Phyllis.
“The clothing is very liberating.”
“You’ll be changing out of it in an inn outside Warszawa; you
will likely be re-united with your mother fairly publicly, and it would not
do. Especially if you are then going
into disguise. You will need to be seen to some extent first, don’t make a
face; the wind might change and you’ll get stuck like it. That’s better,” as
she had to laugh. “Anyway I have to do some very fast talking to the king. Wojciech has been outed about not being dead,
and I have to handle damage limitations for him. I thought if I could get the private ear of
the king, I could point out how much good Wojciech has done, getting rid of a
corrupt Wojewoda – provincial governor – as well as rescuing you. The King will
appreciate what an embarrassment it would be to have his brigands despoiling
and killing the daughter of a powerful noble of a wealthy and increasingly
powerful country. And I know you rescued yourself from that, but I’m going to
be vague about when Wojciech turned up. He and Irenka certainly wiped out the
brigands, and the leader has a price of
a thousand zloty on his head.[1] So I was going to talk very fast and get the
king to retrospectively declare Wojciech an Extraordinary Hetman without
Portfolio if I can muddle a military rank with diplomatic language.”
“I wish you every success.”
“Thank you; fortunately, I am very good at talking fast.”
