then the winged hussar arrived ...

... well the proof did.
Guess what Simon will be reading aloud to proof?  guess who is not popular with a self-confessed anti-linguist?

The blood angel rides again: 1 the Hussar's Bequest

this being a collections of short stories broken up as seems appropriate covering the time between Irenka and Wojciech being married and Phyllis and Seweryn and then afterwards . An eclectic selection . This first one is along the lines of what do you get if you cross Lord Peter Whimsey with Zorro, oh look, it's Wojciech having been irritated.

1 The Hussar’s Bequest

Father Kamil made his way up the steep path to the hanging valley above the village of Szuwary. He was a sturdy middle aged man who was broad of features with wide capable hands and broad, well-used feet. All priests came from the Szlachta but Kamil’s family were poor, and he had grown up doing farm work. Just because his family owned the land he worked did not mean he worked any less hard than a peasant tenant farmer, and many szlachta would refer to his family contemptuously as hreczkosiej, buckwheat-sowers. But it meant he had the right to become a priest, and he had studied on his own, night after night, to achieve his ambition to serve God. As the priest of a rural village he was quite content, though his youth had seen other missions, and further travel.

The stone and wood house of the Szlachta known as Wojciech Skrzydło and his new bride stood here, and the priest, blowing a little, made his way to the door to knock.  They certainly had a beautiful location for their home, on a small pasture, the valley sweeping up on all sides save the one that dropped away.  A waterfall trickled into it the valley from an ice-cold corrie, further up the mountainside.  The little river laughed through the valley, playing  with its stony  bed, and   gushed out, plunging down from the hanging valley into the  main valley below, where it joined the river and the reed beds which gave the village its name. Kamil appreciated the beauty of the spring day, and the birdsong. Insects fed on the nectar of the meadow flowers, birds fed on the insects, and the odd hawk stooped on smaller birds. Nature was arrayed according to God’s law, and it pleased the priest to feel so much in tune with his surroundings. Any man who lived here must surely see God everywhere about him, he thought.

The door was opened by the housekeeper.  The five szlatcha who lived here employed a man and his wife, and one guard, and a lady’s maid, supplemented with four girls and two lads from the village in the house and stables respectively.

“Father! Come in, come in,” said Beata Fiszerowa. “Which of my lords did you wish to see?”

“Lord Skrzydło ... well they almost all answer to that, don’t they? The last winged hussar,” said Kamil, “But advice from all would do no harm.”

“I’ll tell them,” said Beata.

“Father! You should have sent a boy with a message for us,” said Wojciech, followed by Irene, coming into the room where Beata had carefully ensconced the priest with tea and cakes. “ No need to drag yourself up here.”

“Oh, but I am glad I came, my son; it is a beautiful place, and my first thought was ‘I will lift mine eyes to the hills, whence cometh mine aid,’, and if that aid is more physical in the person of a winged hussar, why, I believe you are sent by God.”

Wojciech crossed himself.

“I try to do God’s will,” he said.

“We have been very grateful to you,” said Kamil.  “And I hope you will be able to help a friend of mine, a priest of a village about six miles away.”

“He has a bandit problem?”

“No, my lord, it’s a little bit more fundamental than that,” said Kamil. “The village was owned by a winged hussar, who recently died. His nephew has inherited the estate but there was a bequest to the church to use as seemed appropriate. The old lord told my colleague, Szymon, that he would be able to see to the education of the village children as he wished but ... no money was left.  And I suspect that the bequest was some kind of puzzle, to keep any moneys from the hands of Lord Ludomir.”

“What was the name of the hussar?” asked Wojciech.

“Pegaz Aleksander Sączski,” said Kamil. 

“Oh, I knew the old war-pegasus,” said Wojciech.  “A man of brilliance and a fondness for military deception. Believed in hiding things in plain sight. Once on exercise we were irritated by but did not feel we could deny a peasant taking his carts full of hay across the field where we were camped. Imagine how we were caught when the sheets covered in hay were thrown off to reveal cannon on the carts.”

“He used to play chess with Szymon too,” said Kamil.

“He used to play chess with my father  when they met up too, and cheated, with a broad smile on his face,”  said Wojciech. “It was understood that he would cheat, but catching him replacing pawns with more important pieces was the trick. I recall one game where he had five knights on the board at once. He used to say ‘If you aren’t cheating, you aren’t trying.”

“I see,” said Kamil. “Does this mean you might have some idea what he has done?”

“What was the bequest?” asked Wojciech.

“His lance; the will said that as a defender of the Faith, he could think of nothing better to give to the church.”

“And  Lord Ludomir Sączski is no hussar?”

“He is a courtier,” said Kamil.

“Ah, I fancy I know what he has done, then,” said Wojciech.  “This new lord  has accepted the bequest?”

“Yes, he has been sneering at Szymon,” said Kamil. “He  is disappointed that his legacy is so small, he expected more, and he looks a very expensive young man. I suspect he lives above his means.”

“We’ll come along to make sure he doesn’t do anything illegal,” said Wojciech. “I don’t think we need to wing up for this, my love.”

“But it’s such fun,” said Irene. “Especially putting the fear of us into nasty people.”

“I don’t need wings to intimidate some second rate szlachetka,” said Wojciech.

“Enlighten me in the subtleties of your insult,” said Irene.

“A poor nobleman barely worth being of the szlachta,” said Wojciech. “And you have the puzzle solved, don’t you?”

“I think so,” said Irene. “I presume the will went something like ‘I bequeath my lance and all attachments to it to the church to be used for the parish, and all else to my nephew.’”

“That more or less covers it, my lady,” said Kamil. “And there was a proud banner with the rearing pegasus on it, which Szymon is proud to display in the church on the spear. He ... uh, he heated it, in case there was hidden writing on the banner.”

“Oh, that was a good idea,” said Wojciech. “I’d not put it past old Sączski to have used that ... if I hadn’t suspected something only a hussar would know. Or those who make the lances. Now I’m not going to tell you until we get there. Do you ride?”

“I can ride, yes,” said Kamil.

“Don’t worry; I’ll pick you a quiet mount, Father,” said Irene.

Father Kamil appreciated being helped onto a quiet chestnut mare, and admired the way the szlachcic and his szlachcianka leaped into the saddles without any apparent need to even use the stirrup to mount. The big roan the lady was riding began to prance.

“Oh stop that you old fool, we aren’t going into battle,” said Irene.

Kamil would have sworn that the horse turned and gave her an injured look. He was used to the young szlachcianka wearing male clothes much of the time, or often with a fitted, long female kontusik rather than a male kontusz. He had also seen her fight brigands, and knew she had taken down a wolf with a pitchfork. It always amazed him that the pretty, slender strawberry blonde was actually a fairly seasoned warrior who rode knee-to-knee into battle next to her big, auburn-haired husband. Dressed in green silk  which matched her eyes, the kontusik embellished with gold embroidery, she looked like a wood nymph, fragile next to the broad-shouldered warrior’s frame of her husband.

“I am still not sure who constitutes your household, my lady,”  he said. He never denied being nosy, but it was good to know one’s neighbours.

“Oh, we’re an extended family, Father,” said Irene. “Wojciech and Jaromar were raised together, and count each other brothers; and Jan, Jaromar’s father, was a second father to Wojciech when his own died. Their family are dependents of his. So, now, is Tomasz Zieliński who raised me, as my own father was much absent; we have formally adopted him. I used to call him Papa Captain, but he has suggested I call him Uncle Tomasz. He’s still more of a father to me than my own father, but I am trying to build more of a relationship with my father and his new wife, so I suppose it is more politic.”

“He was your mother’s lover, wasn’t he?” Kamil made a guess.

“How perspicacious of you.  I don’t disapprove, my father did abduct my mother after all, and she married him more or less under duress and only agreed so she would not have an illegitimate child. My father is a weak man but at least he has had more moral fibre than my late uncle who wanted to bed me to train me as a mistress to the king.”

“My goodness!” said Kamil, startled.

“Now perhaps you see why I fled with Wojciech in the guise of the boy, Walenty,” said Irene.

“Lord Seweryn explained some of it,” said Kamil.

“My husband’s Godbrother did not know all of it to explain,” said Irene. “It isn’t something one shouts from the rooftops, and I did not know Seweryn as well then. But Uncle Tomasz made sure my mother could communicate with the servants by teaching her Polish. She had learned some Russian and of course knew French. Uncle Tomasz speaks Russian and French, so they were able to communicate. I am improving my Latin, but in England girls are rarely taught it.”  She smiled thinly. “And with one personable man being kind to her, Mama clung to him for support, especially after my father had visited. I gained the impression, largely from hindsight, that either he was a clumsy lover or my mother was so tense that he hurt her inadvertently. She loathed him cordially! Certainly after I was born, there was another child who was stillborn, and after that whenever my father had been with her she cried most grievously. I do not think she knew I could hear, for she was careful to present a cheerful front to me.  I talked to her about it when I was twelve or thirteen, and she explained the facts of life to me, and was frank about the difference it made when a lover is considerate.  I love Uncle Tomasz; he could make her laugh when she was sad and missing the family she was torn from.”

“There is much more, usually, to any sin than the bald fact of sinning,” said Father Kamil.

“As to the rest of our household, Lynx helped me to escape and find Wojciech, Jadzia was a maid to the girl we helped after she had been waylaid by bandits, and she is pursuing Lynx with patient determination, and Jerzy and Beata are old family servants of the Skrzydło Banner Płodziewicz family. So we are a clan.”

“But ... doesn’t that make your husband Baron of Płodnadolina? The one who supposedly died in a fire?”

“Yes; but after rescuing Phyllis he regretfully had to come back to life,” said Irene. “Besides, the Barony went to the crown so it doesn’t count. He just wants to fight for justice and be left alone,” she added.

Father Kamil gave a ghost of a smile.

“This is, as it happens, a far-flung property owned previously by a family subordinate to the Płodziewicz family in the banner of Skrzydło. I suspect Lord Jaromar picked it because he knew Lord Wojciech would consider it proper to care for people left without a lord rather than leave it to be carved up with legal squabbles.”

“More than likely,” said Irene. “He has a well-developed sense of responsibility like that.”

They came presently into a  little village, as prosperous as Szuwary, but with an air of wariness and dismay. They rode up to the church, and left the horses there, following Father Kamil in after leaving their weapons, and making their respects to the altar. The little wooden church, plain and simple on the outside, was filled with the most beautiful carvings.

“Kamil!” a short, round priest bustled up. He had the sort of face which ought to fall into natural smiles, when not wreathed with the concern for his current problem.   “My lords! My lady! Thank you for coming. Would ... would you like to see the lance?”

“We’d love to see it,” said Wojciech.

The door opened and a sulky-looking szlachcic came in. One might assume this was the new lord, Ludomir. He wore the traditional clothes of the szlachta, a dark blue silk kontusz over lighter blue żupan, and with a sabre slung under his kontusz sash, but somehow it was with the air of dressing for the country rather than being as much a part of him as his skin. He seemed very aware of the open sleeves of the kontusz as they dangled,  seeming to be unused to the garment.  He wore a small moustache as if he was ashamed of it.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” he demanded petulantly.

“Well, one thing I did on coming into a church was to doff my hat; another was to genuflect, and a third to cross myself, “ said Wojciech. “I also left my sabre at the door like a civilised man.” He stared pointedly at the man’s sabre.

“Are you questioning my authority?”

“I’m questioning your manners, your morals, and your good sense,” said Wojciech.

“What do you mean? You can’t tell me what to do! You have no authority over me!” declared Lord Ludomir Sączski.

Wojciech viewed him with dislike.

“You may be of a religion other than that of Rome, but any man with pretensions to nobility doffs his hat at least in a place of worship, as well as to a man of God and to a lady,” he said. “As to my authority, if you don’t show a bit of respect, I will take you outside and drop you in the horse trough, and then I will duel you. By the time I’ve lopped a few limbs off, I’d say the question would have become academic, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d believe the last Winged Hussar if I were you,” said Kamil, mildly. “His father was a friend of your uncle, so I suggest, my lord, that you leave; unless you wished to pray, in which case your sword is out of place.”

“You are insolent, priest!”

“My Rotmistrz commands me to speak as is necessary without fear or favour; he died for you too, though by the love of the Queen of Poland, sometimes it escapes me why,” said Kamil, indicating the figure of Christ above the altar. “I’ll pray for your soul when the blood angel is through with you.”

“The blood angel? But they say that’s Płodnadolina?” Sączski paled.

Wojciech gave a feral sort of grin. Apparently the man had heard of him. He had, after all, had a certain reputation even before he had faked his own death to become the blood angel.

“At the service of your sabre anywhere and anytime,” said Wojciech, happily.

“I ... I have no interest in my uncle’s bequest to the church.”

“I’ll hold you to that if you try to overturn his will,” said Wojciech. “I don’t mind ending a line which has gone rotten and effete if I have to.”

Father Szymon was making slightly horrified noises.

“Grow up, Szymon; the blood angel fights on God’s army,” said Kamil.

“What makes me think you might once have been a Hussar chaplain?” murmured Wojciech.

Kamil smirked.

The unwanted interloper retreated.

“He hasn’t gone,” said Irene.

“Doesn’t matter; it’s none of his interest.  He said so in front of impeccable witnesses,” said Wojciech.

Father Szymon brought forward the banner forward.

Wojciech caught it below the spherical guard, and raised an eyebrow.

“It didn’t occur to you that it is rather heavy?” he asked.

“I don’t know; I’ve never handled a lance before,” said Szymon.

Kamil gasped.

“I never handled it,” he said. “I apologise if I have dragged you all this way for nothing.”

“Oh, not for nothing,” said Wojciech. “I got to see Sączski crawl on his belly and accept insults from me, it was an entertaining little trip.  Moreover I am on hand as a witness in case he tried to claim anything back.   Ah, look, it’s made to come apart under the guard.  One thing which you may not know about a Hussar lance, Father Szymon, is that they are hollow.  Otherwise they would be too heavy to use.  And if we tip this up ...”

A coruscating stream of bright gems flowed from the hollow lance. Father Szymon crossed himself.

There was a howl of outrage from the shadows near the back of the church.

“No!  My uncle never meant that!  He must have forgotten he had hidden them!” Sączski came running up the aisle.

“I doubt that,” said Wojciech, moving to intercept him. “A clever man, your uncle. And you said you had no interest in your uncle’s bequest. I will bear witness to that.”

“You won’t if you are dead!” Sączski drew his sabre. “And the church burned, and if the girl does as she’s told I’ll let her live as my mistress.” He was almost on Wojciech.

“My lord! Catch!” Irene picked up the business end of the lance and threw it, as she had practised doing for long hours over the winter. Wojciech held up his hand without needing to look away from Sączski, and caught it in time to get the spear tip up to parry the descending blade. Irene picked up a candlestick and went to stand beside her lord with his rather inadequate weapon.  Sączski ignored her, which was a mistake.

“Kamil! Call her away! She will be hurt!” gasped Father Szymon.

Kamil laughed.

“Not she! That’s Skrzydło Irenka Płodziewiczowa, the blood angel’s wife.”

Wojciech had reversed his spear in a rapid spin to catch his adversary in the gut with the heavy spherical hand guard and as the impious szlachta fumbled at his belt for a pistol, Irenka brought the heavy candlestick down on that shoulder, which broke audibly.  Wojciech continued whirling his short spear, parrying and attacking, forcing Sączski backwards.

“I pray there will be no bloodshed in this church!” cried Father Szymon, wringing his hands.

“I fancy that Lord Płodziewicz is going out of his way to make sure there is not,” said Kamil, dryly. “He has had at least three openings where he could have killed Sączski and chose not to do so, for respect for the mother church. He will get him outside and then kill him. Uuugh! I don’t know if that will make it easier or harder!” 

Sączski had cut three feet off the wooden shaft of the lance as Wojciech aimed a blow at him. Irenka was not interfering with her husband’s prey other than to be aware and discouraging him from cheating.  Wojciech held out a hand to her, and she placed the brass candlestick into it.  Wojciech laughed in delight, and started spinning his hands with a weapon in each in the style of one who has learned to fight with two sabres.

“He surely can’t manage the moulinet without a thumb ring ...” gasped Kamil. “He’s using the baroque ornamentation!”

“I haven’t a clue what you mean but ... oh that had to smart,” said Father Szymon, watching in horrified fascination as the candlestick smashed into Sączski’s gut while the spear point parried.

Foot by foot, Wojciech drove his quarry back, and Irene leaped to open the big door so that he could be forced out. And once out of the porch, the whirling pattern shifted slightly, and Wojciech parried with the candlestick and slammed the spear point home through the courtier’s throat.

Then Wojciech crossed himself and knelt to pray.

The priests and Irene joined him.

“I’ll write a report for the king,” said Wojciech.

“Why didn’t you grab up your sabre in the porch, you daft red maverick, you?” asked Irene

“Because Aleksander Sączski, who was a God-fearing man, used his lance to keep his wealth from his nephew; and it seemed his will, with the aid of the Queen of Poland guiding your hand, that the weapon he bequeathed to the church should continue to defend the church,” said Wojciech, simply.

Irene could not quarrel with that.

Wojciech handed the spear back.

“You should have the carpenter fit plugs to join back the bit lopped off and rejoin it to the butt,” he said. “The spear of the old Pegasus did its duty for the last time and deserves to be a treasure of the church as much as the wealth of the gems. Go and put them somewhere safe.”

He bowed, and then he and Irene were heading for their horses.

“I ... I can hardly take it in,” said Szymon. “Who is he, again?”

“That, my friend, is the last winged hussar,” said Kamil.

2    

Advance notice re publishing

Ok, I said I'd keep them up for the duration but I am sorry, my income is dropping away, and I'm a bit addicted to eating.
So I'm moving to get proof copies of Julia's Journey and The Last Winged Hussar, which means they can stay up a bit more, until I've received and read the proofs.

I do apologise. this thing is dragging on.

On the up side, I'm writing well through the enforced quiet. 

cover

Glossary

I think this covers it all, I hope all my spellings are correct.  posting it messes up the nice layout but that, alas, is life.

Glossary for Winged Hussars

Burmistrz                    Mayor

Chorąźy                      Ensign

Hussar                        Polish hussars were heavy shock troops, wearing wings on their backs of wood and leather with feathers of various kinds set into them. The most plausible explanations I have found for these are [a] to scare the wits out of other horses [and their riders] and [b] to create enough resistance to discourage a horse from going full tilt, thus ensuring that they could manage a second charge.  Unlike many cavalry, the Polish winged hussars were able to stop short, wheel, regroup and attack again. They were disbanded in 1776 as obsolete.

Kontusz                       the outer garment of a szlachcik, a rich long coat often much braided on the chest and sleeves, and often with slashed sleeves to allow the arms to be worn outside the sleeve which is left to hang.  In winter, lined with fur.

Kontusik                     A female version of the kontusz, usually hip length but can be shorter or longer.

Mazurek                     Mazurka

Pan                              Address of a szlachta, ‘sir’ or ‘lord’

Pani                             Address of married szlachcianka  equivalent to ‘lady’

Panicz                         Address of a young szlachcic, meaning ‘young master’ much like the  archaic English ‘Childe’

Panna                          An unmarried szlachcianca [see also Waćpanna]

Poczet                         a towarzysz’s unit of men, a lance of men and their support staff

Poczowy                      retainers, members of a poczet

Polonez                       The dance, Polonaise

Porucznik                    ‘lieutenant’; the one who does the work for the rotmistrz, probably would be called ‘captain’ in the west.

Rotmistrz                    translated captain, militarily a company commander and probably closer to a major in a western army

Sejm                            Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth Parliament

Sołtys                          Village mayor

Starosta                      Sheriff

Szlachta                      Nobility. In theory all szlachta were equal, but some really were more equal than others in terms of wealth and prominence.

Szlachcic                     Nobleman

Szlachcianka               Noblewoman

Żupan                          A szlachcic’s garment, a long tunic high at the neck and buttoning down the front, worn under the kontusz.

Towarzysz                  Companion/brother-nobleman-warrior, maintains a poczet for a Rotmistrz, an officer.

Ulans                           Polish light cavalry, replacing the hussars entirely after 1776.

Waćpanna                   archaic address form if speaking directly to an unwed szlachcianka, about equivalent to the English ‘Burd’

Wojewoda                   a district administrator or governor

Wójt                            a subordinate administrator

Zloty                           Unit of currency, 1 dukat = 6 zloty, 30 groszy = 1 zloty.  At the time £1 was worth around 8 Zloty ie 1 zloty ≈ 2/6d [half a crown].  This at a time when a clerk is paid around £75 a year which slightly less than the yearly cost to keep a horse even in a livery stable.  Each of our hussars is going around on the 18^th century equivalent of a Jaguar E-type.

Under the Raven Banner chapter 1

this story follows on from the story arc of rescuing Phyllis and picks up with her and with Seweryn where we left them in The Last Winged Hussar. Determined to be safe as Seweryn's page after a time with her family, Phyllis recalls a few details about how her coach became separated and that some things were too precise for brigands. An enemy her father made in Austria has plans for vengeance, but when a silly and vindictive girl makes some erroneous conclusions he is not above ambition along with his vengeance.

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.”

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[1] A little over 100 guineas; Dick Turpin had a price of £100 on his head in 1737