Ring in the True 1

 this covers the bit passed over in a couple of paragraphs in Potop and more or less picks up a few months on from where we left them, late summer 1656 through to end of summer 1657. I've been tinkering and revising as I go so it may be rough.

Chapter 1

 

“In a season of dust in the trail of the hoofs

And the smell like baked bread as the dried grasses move

So pull on your kontusik and mount up with me

Ride out on the steppe where we’re free

 

Let us ride out together now over the steppe

And all of our duties let us freely forget

Where the song of cicadas sings us to sleep

As we lie beneath velvet nights deep

 

There’s the pipes and the teorbans with songs of yore

And tales the old men tell of exploits of war

And the drumming of hoofs and the beat of my heart

As percussion to play its sweet part

 

Let me be your lover now, burning and bright

I yearn for your love through the darkness of night

You came to bring succour, so trusty and true

You always came to my rescue”

 

Jurij sang the new song he had written for Mira.

“My love, you are so talented,” said Mira. “Thank you; I hear all that you are in every line, my romantic Cossack stallion.”

“I love you,” said Jurij. “And we can’t really abandon duty with that idiot Chmielnicki making an alliance with the Prince of Transylvania and seeking to ally with Sweden. Does he think Alexei of Russia is anything but irritated with the Swedes?  Bohdan is between a rock and a hard place like I said he would be.”

“Ah, but he’s thinking that Tsar Alexei will forgive all if he pulls off that act for which all sins are forgiven.”

“What’s that?”

“Winning,” said Mira. “Sing to me again; your daughter is peevish and I want her to finish eating without chewing pieces out of me and go to sleep.”

“We’ll be at war before she finishes teething,” said Jurij. “I have no doubt we’ll be facing Chmielnicki and Transylvanian Hungarians.”

“Hungarians are supposed to be our brothers.”

“Apparently György Rákóczi ... ruddy Hungarian names, Jerzi Rakócy to us ... has ambitions outside of brotherhood. He shares Karol Gustaw Waza’s religion again, so I suppose one should not be surprised. Why Chmielnicki wants to join with him beats me. At least Catholicism and Orthodoxy have many points of similarity.”

“Jurij, my love, Chmielnicki has given up all pretence of anything save ambition, I fear,” said Mira. “He boasted of a deal which would keep the Rzeczpospolita out of his lands, and I think that has turned his mind away from what should be his primary goal – keeping his Cossacks safe and out from under harsher thumbs than our little father’s.”

“He’s a fool. And because he’s going to cause us trouble, he’s not even a fool I feel sorry for any longer.”

“Well, we can set up a network of spies to return at best speed to report any incursions; and have our mountain men set up ambuscades of rocks in nets, and excavated chambers ready to add gunpowder to disrupt them; and we do what we do best, harry and take supplies.”

“Do you hate the waiting as much as I do?”

“Yes, which is why I’m suggesting preparations,” said Mira.

“Well, crossing the Carpathians near Krosno is the only feasible place,” said Jurij. “So ...” He was well away, planning.

The preparations to do war on an invader would keep her mercurial husband from the brooding he was still too prone to fall into. He also took a quite boyish delight in devising surprises for the enemy, which also stimulated him in other ways, a side effect Mira found very pleasing.

 

***

Meanwhile the two would-be assassins of Jurko, Petrulewicz and Nowak, were settling in. Nowak, having freely admitted that he had been unjustified in believing Jurko responsible for the murders of those captured at the battle of Batoh, was fairly readily accepted. He took the unpleasant duties he was given willingly, and soon found himself invited to dice for jobs with everyone else. Petrulewicz made no trouble, but was inclined to truculence. He listened, however, and learned.

 

***

 

Autumn turned inexorably into winter, and Jurij kept patrols out to watch for envoys and signs of  activity from Chmielnicki. By the time all the leaves had gone, they had collected three envoys,  which was to say two Cossacks and a Hungarian.  Jurij had no illusions that their capture was likely to prevent the eventual alliance between the Hungarian Prince of Transylvania and King Karol Gustaw Waza of Sweden, as the letters hinted, but delaying tactics gave his king more time to chase out Swedes. He forwarded the treaties to Jan Kazimierz, and kept the envoys in comfortable imprisonment.

This was slightly less comfortable than that of his hostage, Eric Björn, a Swedish baron, who had turned himself over for the threatened dishonourable treatment by his superiors of Mira, whom he had captured. Mira had duly escaped, but they had kept Eric, and he had more or less settled in with the other disparate people of Jurij’s Misfits. Eric had a page now; the daughter by her first marriage of Jadwiga, married to Taras, Jurij’s right-hand man.

Eric had as yet no idea that his page was a girl of sixteen, and thought her to be a boy of around twelve. Emerancja appreciated the freedoms of being a boy, but she was not likely to find herself in battle, which suited her well enough at first. Unlike Basia, Jurij’s ward, who as Basek was page to Scypion Brzeziński, who also had no idea his page was a girl. Nominally her brother, Roch, was also his page, but at eleven went daily for lessons from the priest.  Basia learned what mathematics she felt she needed, which was for engineering, gunnery, and killing Swedes.

Eric appreciated the freedoms he had, and had deliberately not asked if he might rejoin his king, being ashamed of the actions of his own countrymen.

 

Iwan and Ilko the two Cossacks kept trying to escape; Zoltan Tóth was content to be a prisoner of war in a comfortable dwór, fed well,  and permitted limited freedom for the giving of his parole.

Eric, however, had another problem when he was approached by Per, the drummer boy he had brought with him when he handed himself over as a voluntary hostage.

“My lord,” said Per, nervously, “I ... I owe you a lot ...”

“No, son,” said Eric. “I owed you care, because your father was my batman, and when he died, I promised him I would see you taken care of.”

“I ... I want to be Polish and fight with Lord Jurij,” said Per. “I’ve always had the run of the camp like any other drummer, and ... and I sort of like someone a lot.”

He blushed furiously as only a boy who had just discovered girls can blush.

“You realise that Lady Mira is not going to permit any of her maids to get ... premature, don’t you?” said Eric.

The boy dug a toe into the ground.

“Well ... I haven’t done anything but look at her, and ... and our hands met when I helped her with the washing,” he confessed.

“It can be heady,” agreed Eric, solemnly. “If you want to be a Pole, I’ve no objection if Lord Jurij has none, and I doubt he cares where you come from so long as you are loyal to him.”

“No, I don’t think he does,” said Per. “We have people from all over, and he’s trying to steal the Hungarian envoy.”

“I don’t put anything past Jurij Sokołowski,” said Eric. “No, I don’t mind if you feel at home here; which is what it’s mostly about, isn’t it?”

Per flushed.

“Yes, my lord,” he said. “Nobody makes any judgements about me, and I only get cuffed for a real offence not because someone is in a bad mood, Lord Jurij doesn’t let them.”

“Yes, it’s interesting, in some ways they appear to an outsider to be an undisciplined rabble, because of their apparent disregard for rank and social level, but he has them under iron control,” said Eric.

Per was also friendly with the boys Roch and Staszek. Staszek, who had impressed Jurij by facing out his whole column alone, was still a little shy about calling his ataman ‘Uncle Jurij’, but he was getting there. Hryhor was the son of the house, but Jurij was uncle to Basia and Roch as well. And had accepted it too from Emerancja.  As one of the young lads who were a part of the regiment of ‘Jurij’s Misfits’, but indulged somewhat by the troops for their youth, Per knew more about what was happening than many of the men, by the expedient of constructive eavesdropping and sharing information. Hryhor Sokołowski could also be persuaded to chatter artlessly about what Papa and Mama had discussed if indulged and included in games and sport. Jurij was inclined to be amused and called the boys his intelligence service.

 

Christmas came and went; and Jurij had not given up the idea of suborning the Hungarian envoy.

“I find it extraordinary that the Prince of Transylvania should ally with the Fisheaters,” Jurij said to Zoltan Tóth. “Poles and Hungarians are brothers; I have Hungarians in my regiment, along with Poles, Silesians, Prussians, Cossacks, Lithuanians, Scots, an Austrian, and a couple of Tatars who got left behind by their fellows and settled down with my lads.”

“You have more alien warriors than any of those you name, you have women,” said Tóth.

“Well, I admit that women can be strange beings,” laughed Jurij. “But I wanted to remind you of the rhyme,

Polak, Węgier — dwa bratanki,

I do szabli, i do szklanki,

Oba zuchy, oba żwawi,

Miech im Pan Bóg błogosławi.

 

Pole and Hungarian brothers twain

Good for sabre or drinking grape and grain

Both valour and liveliness their endeavour

God’s blessings upon them be forever.”

 

“We have a similar rhyme,” said Tóth. “I don’t know why. I compromise my feelings by accepting my captivity but I won’t go against my prince. Stop trying to make me do so, you rogue.”

“I have to try.”

“Granted; you tried. Now break out the mead and play a game of chess with your prisoner.”

Jurij laughed.

He would feel equivocal towards the man if he had turned coat. As he would regarding Eric, who was a prisoner at large, but not one of Jurij’s officers.

A fact which did not entirely please Emerancja as she was learning more.

She approached Eric.

“My lord,” she said, “I want to be a part of the fighting force and ride into war with my friend Basek. And that means I need to be page to a fighting officer. I have enjoyed learning from you, and it is nothing personal.”

Eric smiled, ruefully.

“My drummer and my page both deserting me,” said he.

Emerancja flushed.

“I am not exactly deserting you,” she said. “But you have trained me, and taught me Swedish, and now I want to put my knowledge to use. And wipe out the stain on my line of my father’s treason.”

“I teased you, my lad. Don’t worry. Do you want me to talk to Jurij?”

“No, I will speak to him,” said Emerancja.

 

“Uncle Jurij,” said Emerancja, “Or actually, as it’s sort of official, ataman, may I speak to you?”

“Strictly speaking, you are speaking to me,” said Jurij. “But let me not intimidate you with the niceties of grammar; there was a teacher in the school I attended who did that, and I hated him worse than the ones who merely cuffed one. He had a nasty way about him and a way of lecturing between strokes of the cane, leaving one in awful anticipation.”

“My father used to do something similar,” said Emerancja. “More to Mama than me, if she displeased him, he would tell her he would punish her later.  Punishments were always after the evening meal.”

“My poor child,” said Jurij. “What was it that you wanted?”

“Oh, I am happy now I am free and permitted to be a boy,” said Emerancja. “But I want to be a part of the war,  and wipe out the stain of my father’s treason, and I can’t be that if I’m page to a non-combatant.  My lord has released me from his service to ask you. He did understand.”

“I see,” said Jurij. “And did you have any particular lord in mind?”

“Oleh,” said Emerancja, with a gasp.

“Are you sure?” asked Jurij. “He moans about being treated as a szlachcic. Having a page ...”

“He may not be as big as my step-papa, but he’s very safe,” said Emerancja.

“As safe as a sack full of vipers, my child, like many of us. He knows you are a girl but he won’t make any allowances for it; fewer, in fact, because he knows you’re older than you appear as a boy.” He hesitated. “And if, as I suspect from the way you said his name, you find him ... interesting ... as a man, you must be very sure because he won’t play the daft-like city games of chivalry you may be used to. He’s a Cossack, and Cossacks are straightforward people. And as such he isn’t ... safe... at all.”

“He’s someone who could protect me.”

“He’s a good bit older than you; he’s around my age.”

“So he knows more about how to keep me safe.”

“Very well. We’ll go talk to him about it.”

Oleh was almost twice her age, but in war one seized happiness, and if it came to them, Jurij was not about to deny either a chance at it. And certainly he was not about to deny her the chance to retrieve her family honour.

 

 

“A page, my ataman, my little father? Have you run mad?  Do I look like some soft Lach who needs waiting on?” spluttered Oleh.

“Careful, Oleh, I took a page, once,” said Jurij, narrowing his eyes.

“Well, that was to keep our little lady safe ...”

“And I want you to keep Taras’ stepdaughter safe,” said Jurij. “You’re his nephew; it’s your job. She wants to go to war, not serve a lord who is a hostage.”

“I’m not a ruddy szlachcic! I haven’t had all my brains trickle out of my arse into the feathers up my backside ... oh shit,” he added, remembering suddenly that Jurij and Mira had ridden with wings once.

Jurij was laughing.

“I want to wipe out the stain of dishonour my father’s treachery laid on me, and I can’t think of a better way of irritating him than becoming a Cossack!” said Emerancja.

Oleh looked at her, hard, intently.

“For that, I’ll do it,” he said. “You will work hard enough to go to bed crying.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Emerancja.

 

The Bells of Jasna Góra

 So, I read about the siege of the monastery of Jasna Góra and how 70 monks and 80 volunteers held off the massed thousands of the Swedish army and how this inspired the rest of Poland to rise against the invaders, and I was deeply moved and inspired to want to involve Jurko and Mira. So, Polish history book in one hand, Sienkiewicz's Deluge in the other, Wiki open on a variety of subjects I set to. It's a bit 'Deluge vol I, what vol I' as I skip over that, and it fetched up as a novella so I will be following up with 'and other stories' on the meandering journey to Lwów.

we open with the wind up to events where I leapfrog the events of volume one and get to them setting off. 

Chapter 1: June 1655

 

 

“What the hell! Mira, tell me I am not having a nightmare,” said Jurij Sokołowski, reading a letter.

“Not a sleeping one, anyway, my love, what is it?” said his wife. The little red-head looked over at her handsome husband, slightly sleeker after some years of marriage, but still slender and with well-defined planes on his dark, hawkish face, his dark hair still as unruly as ever in contrast to his long, neat Cossack moustache. He was a much calmer man these days, but still depended heavily on his petite wife, whose gamine beauty had won his heart against his will. Her red curls had grown in the years they had been married, and as she no longer had to hide as a boy, she had not cut them short. Jurko was wont to tease her that her hair had grown into the semblance of the wigs worn by those men who affected western dress.

“It’s from Jan Sobieski,” said Jurij. “He ... damn it, I thought things were bad enough ... he is going to join Karol Gustaw Waza in Sweden, joining the Radziwiłł rebellion against our king in favour of his cousin.” His sea-coloured eyes which changed colour with his mood were grey with concern.

“Oh no!”  Mira was shocked. “You must write to him.”

“I will, and to Papa Zagłoba to warn the king. I ... should I join the king?”

“Hardly, we’re the main forces against the Russians and Cossacks here.”

He wrote more fluently these days, and had no difficulty pouring out his thoughts.

 

 

“My dear lord-brother,

Jan, don’t do this, I beg you. 

I have been so lucky to be forgiven my own foolishness, please do not fall into the trap I fell into, following a cause which turns out to be hollow.

I know Jan Kazimierz has not been the king some have hoped for but he is our king. This is all a plot of that greedy bastard Radziwiłł who will doubtless also use his shared Calvinist faith with Karol Gustaw to insist on sanctions upon Catholic or Orthodox Poles, and a means to seize land, because his true religion is the worship of the Red Złoty Incarnate and his favourite litany is ‘put it in my strongbox’. I wish you will reconsider.

Your brother in arms,

Jurij “

 

He penned another letter.

 

“Zagłoba,

You old fox, what is to be done? I thought all was well, Jan-Michal is doing well, and Hryhor is a dear little tyke; the one who is on the way will be Onufry for you if it is a boy. And now this. As if the Russians weren’t enough of a threat, that pox upon the land, that spawn of Satan, Radziwiłł has his plans in motion. Sobieski has been seduced by his words, and other honourable men will likely be so too. Is it Poland’s fate always to be torn apart by honourable men following foolish causes? Tell Jan Kazimierz to beware; I will hold what I might as long as I might. Keep my brother and sister Jan Skrzetuski and Helena Skrzetuska safe and the little knight also.

Go with God,

Jurko

 

“Mira ...”

She wrapped her arms around him and lifted her face for a kiss; and he carried her into the bedroom to love her until the anger welling up in him was assuaged in the sweet oblivion of exhaustion in her arms.

 

Time passed

“Mira, I ... I ought to be doing something against the Swedes,” said Jurko. “I was left to hold this border ...”

“Then hold the border, until given orders otherwise,” said Mira. “The king or one of his agents will direct you if the orders have changed. Being here means we will know if they ally with the Cossacks.”

“You are right.  But I would like to hear from Zagłoba. The old fox is indestructible; I can’t help wondering whether he is all right.”

“Give it another week, and then we go looking for him”

“You are heavily pregnant ...”

“Friends do what they must.”

The letter arrived two days later.

 

 

Jurij

Things have gone to shit sure enough. This took its while to find me.  The Radziwiłł princes have  as you know gone over to the enemy, and for a while so did Michał, working for Janusz Radziwiłł.  Also a wild crazy man called Andrzej Kmicic, whom Michał has fought, and whose actions saved our lives, of which I will tell you more; his proud manner and nobleness of action and refusal to justify himself left me thinking of you, my boy, and hoping he be like you and able to grow past the wildness. Rzędzian however says he has encountered him since, and that he is trying to put right what he has messed up, for the young fool made a vow not to desert Radziwiłł and found himself damned either way, and at loggerheads with his lady-love for it. By Our Lady, you were never so tangled in your honour as young Kmicic, who is as convoluted as one of the fish-eaters’ snaky knots that they use in decoration. It makes me appreciate you the more. But to what happened to us!

Radziwiłł imprisoned Jan, Michał,  and me, but decided to send us to Sweden – and I confess Kmicic is to be thanked for that – and so of course I used my not inconsiderable brain to make sure we escaped (are you laughing, my merry lad, while Mira teases you about having dimples when you laugh?)and so here we are, and me in charge of a garrison. Is my other little girl close to her time? When she is delivered, I would hope you might visit.

Onufry Zagłoba

 

 

“Captured!  Poor Helena, she wanted nothing of war, and expected her Jan to protect her from all that,” said Jurko. “Jan must have been beside himself to fear leaving her widowed with three little ones without the chance to fight back.”

“I am glad they had Papa Zagłoba to be resourceful,” said Mira.  “My love, I ... I believe I am going to be early with the baby. I have a dreadful backache, and I just  had the first pains.”

“I’ll send for Marianne. It is too early ... it is only August ...”

“Hryhor and Jan-Michał were early ...”

“Yes, but not this early.  I will get my lute.”

 

Marianne, the head of the female servants, assisted as she had before; and Jurko played lute for Mira to concentrate. 

Marianne shook her head as the child was delivered.

“I’ll send the boy for the priest,” she said.

Miechysława Sokołowska breathed her first at ten in the morning; and her last as the sun set shortly after eight in the evening.

Mira clung to Jurko, sobbing.

“Oh, love! Was it my fault for loving you too roughly when I was upset about Sobieski?” he asked. “I ...  my temper ... I can control it with your love, but ...”

“Hush that nonsense!” Mira managed through her tears. “We have loved vigorously when I was carrying both of the boys, so you know it is not true!  And moreover it is too long since to have brought it on!”

He held her. He knew it was so, but part of  him wondered if it was anything he had done, for which he should atone, which had cost them their daughter.

Mira recovered physically, but a month passed and Jurko wrote again to Zagłoba.

 

Papa Zagłoba,

We lost our daughter, she lived only a few hours. I am in despair about Mira, she has lost her sparkle entirely. She is physically recovered, back to sabre drill and dancing as well as ever, but it’s almost as if the dancing figure is a marionette, who does the moves without life and joy in the limbs. She is listless and preoccupied.  I expect you will think me a fool, and a fanciful fool at that but I fear her becoming an automaton. She is even listless in bed where she has always been most enthusiastic and it worries me that I cannot distract her. I worry to bring her to a fortress, have you any ideas?

Jurij

 

An answer was carried by Rzędzian some weeks later. The young blond had changed little, other than being better dressed, with hands full of rings, and carrying a little more weight on his well-knit frame.

“Ho, Cossack, what’s this I hear about your little bird losing her song?” said Rzędzian. “I have a letter from Zagłoba, not because I have to act the messenger, you understand; I’m a man of substance these days. I came because I felt like it. You look seedy.”

“If you can cheer Mira, I don’t care what you came for,” said Jurko.

“Well, here’s a letter for you; I’ll let her beat me with sabre.”

“No ‘let’ about it; she’s better than you, even dispirited.”

“Well, I’ll challenge her, then.”

 

Jurko read the letter.

 

“Jurij,

I don’t think you any kind of fool to care about Mira so deeply. I asked some discreet questions”

“Zagłoba and discreet in the same sentence? I’m not sure I believe that,” muttered Jurko, reading on,

“... and I understand it’s normal for a woman to lose interest in bedroom matters for perhaps even several months when she has lately given birth, especially if she loses the baby.  As for being depressed, well, she has gone most of the way, had a baby born live and then all the pain turned out to be for nothing. Give her time.  It isn’t  good time, but perhaps a pilgrimage somewhere?

Give her a big hug from me and love from Helena and Jan.

Zagłoba.

 

 

“Mira, would you like to go on a pilgrimage?” asked Jurko. “And Papa Zagłoba, Helena and Jan all send hugs.”

“That is kind of them. A pilgrimage? Right now?  Is it right to leave our post?” Mira was anxious. “I ... it does not especially seem wise.”

“I don’t know, but I want to help you.”

“I will think about it.”

With that he had to be content. 

Mira perked up at a challenge from Rzędzian, and Jurij was delighted to see a touch of the old sparkle when she told him,

“You are too fond of high living with that new-found wealth of yours; you’re porky.”

“I am not so! Just big-boned,” protested Rzędzian. “And I’d have had more wealth if I’d been able to steal your husband’s chest of goodies before he hid it somewhere different.”

“Why do you think he hid it somewhere different?” said Mira. “He knows you.”

“Nothing wrong with a bit of looting.”

“No; that’s why we’re rich too. Now watch that inside guard or you’ll be sore for a week.” They were using wooden swords, and she whacked his left hip-bone. Rzędzian yelped, and pushed forward. She disengaged fluently, stepped aside, swung the sabre effortlessly with the moulinet to whack his left buttock.

By the time Rzędzian swallowed his pride enough to yield, his left side was sore from ribs to hip, and he was beginning to improve his guard in quinte and septime.

“You’ll want a hot bath; one is waiting for you,” said Mira. “And a pot of horse linament.”

“What, do I look like a horse as well as feeling like I’ve been ridden by someone free with the crop?”

“Certainly not! I like horses and consider them pleasing to look on,” said Mira.

“You’re a whelp,” said Rzędzian.

“That’s what I’m doing wrong; not being rude enough,” said Jurko. She laughed a little, and touched his face.

“You are a good, patient husband to put up with my megrims,” she said.

“You are my best friend, my love, my soulmate,” he said, seriously, taking her hands. She leaned on him.

“It has been so long that I have been unable to shake this heaviness of spirit,” she said.

The baby had been born in August; it was into October.

“No Cossack or Moskal is going to attack at this time year; it would be a good time to go on pilgrimage.”

“And I will sleep on it.”

He kissed her tenderly, and she went to bed, clearly planning to sleep. Jurko let a sigh escape.

“I like you more now you’re in love with the right one for you, you know,” said Rzędzian. “I wish I could help; I see what you mean, it’s like part of her spirit died.”

“She’s snatched me from death, preserved us from capture and death ... and I can’t do a simple thing like keep her happy.”

“Women are difficult creatures,” said Rzędzian. “I’ll pray if it’ll help.”

“I don’t turn down prayer.” 

He went to bed himself; at least Mira still wanted to share a bed, and snuggled at him in her sleep. He wrapped his arms around her, and swore to do whatever it took to help her.

 

 

Mira sat up in bed, and Jurko jerked awake, in sudden concern.

“Beloved?”  he asked

“Jurko,” said Mira, “I had a dream of the Black Madonna of Częstochowa. I feel an urge to go and pray to her; I know the year is turning but I want to go there. If we shift, we should be there by the beginning of November, and we can always stay over until the weather improves before coming home.”

Jurko crossed himself.

“I never deny dreams,” he said. “We’ll take a dozen or so men, the roads are not happily travelled these sad days.”

“So long as two of them are Taras and Oleh,” said Mira. “We four have been together forever.” She considered. “While we are awake ...”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! Yes at last I want you to love me. I ... I am sorry I have been so strange.”

“Shh, little one, I love you well enough to be here for you without the sherbet.”

“Sherbet now, please.”

“As my lady commands.” She heard the smile in his voice, as he remembered that she had likened unrequited love to gobbling sherbet in the rain, sweet insubstantial pleasure inside misery. Her love for him was now very much requited.

 

 

 

“You seem more at peace,” said Rzędzian in the morning.

“She had a dream of the Black Madonna,” said Jurko. “We’ll set out as soon as possible.”

“Do you want me to come?”

Jurko shot his odd, sideways glance at the younger man.

“If you want to come, I won’t turn down your company,” he said. “If you prefer to get back to Jan Skrzetuski, I won’t be offended. You’re a man of wealth and substance and must please yourself.”

Rzędzian laughed.

“And only you could make an insult of that!  I’ll ride with you some of the way and take a report back to Zagłoba.”

Jurko nodded.

He did owe Rzędzian his life, after all, for patching him up after Michał Wołodyjowski had almost killed him. It was a complex sort of relationship.

Having Rzędzian along would at least be entertaining.

Jurko considered who he might take out of what Sobieski referred to as ‘Jurij’s misfits.’  His men were a mix of Cossacks from his old company, Poles, the odd Silesian, Cek, Hungarian, Lithuanian and even the odd Scotsman. Misfits they might be, and some of them had been serious misfits, unwanted by anyone else; but he and Mira were beloved of their mixed bag of men, whom they had moulded into a very sharp, well-disciplined fighting force, taking techniques of all their native ways of war to add to his own Cossack background. Dawid Fraiters, for example, the son of a Scottish lord fathered on his bailiff’s daughter spoke of a ‘ghillie suit’, worn those who managed the game for their lord, as a result of which Jurko had ordered his men to sew loops onto their ‘plastun cloak’ or scout cloak, which Cossacks used to blend in to the scenery. It had saved Jurko’s life, once. The loops were there that they might jam local vegetation into them, giving even better camouflage. It meant that the cloaks were useful outside of a region where they matched the soil. Taking Dawid was out of the question, though, as his wife was near her time. His Silesian friend Manfred Borekski would do, however. A mix of men from a variety of places would also do very nicely. Dmytro, Anton and Wasyl, the first Cossacks to defect from Chmielnicki to join him, would make a good core. They would volunteer anyway; and then he would choose from other volunteers to make a nice mix of skills and backgrounds. And servants for the mundane tasks; a pity that Janko the farrier was such an irritating man, but they had no other better as yet. Oh well, how much trouble could he cause.

“There’s a lot more to being a banneret assigning one’s own levy than just to being an acting-colonel,” said Jurko, as he wrestled with lists.

“But then, you have absolute control of who your people are without having to take some political appointment as an officer,” said Mira.

“You know, I hadn’t thought of it like that, but you’re right,” agreed Jurko. “I have hand-picked officers, with their patents of nobility from the king, and all men I trust to get the job done.”

Dawid, as one of his officers needed to be apprised that at need there was money in the coffers to help Jan Kazimierz, bribing the Zaporoscy Cossacks if need be to join him. Jurko would beggar himself if need be, for the king who had given him a second chance.