The last winged hussar now live

Allegedly the kindle is available as well as the paperback but it's only showing the paperback ... meh, they should link automatically

Dance of Sabres 1

This is a bit of a spy story. Wladyslaw Sokolowski [it isn't letting me put in dark l for the blurb] has been playing a dangerous game in trying to uncover the plans of a traitor in the pay of Katarzyna of Russia. Joanna Krasinskowna, keen to atone for her foolishness, joins him as his page, and finds she enjoys The Great Game ... but there are troubles ahead with a very cruel and ruthless adversary who is not averse to using any and all means to find out what his enemy knows.
warning; Sokolowski is in for a bad time of things around chapters 10-13.

Chapter 1

“Mama, Papa, may I be a page like Filka, please?”  asked Joanna.

Lord Mikołaj exchanged a look with his wife.

“Gosia, it is up to you,” he said to his lady. “Filka had every good reason to feel a need for martial training; and used it to escape from Świnka. Joasia has every expectation of being protected ... yet times are uncertain.”

“I understand you wished you had been a boy,” said Lady Małgorzata. “I ... well, I have asked if Irene and Wojciech will come back and help give you all some basic training.  Is there a reason you want to be a page?”

Joanna hung her head.

“I feel responsible for Lord Sokółowski’s wound,” she said. 

“Why?” asked her father, bluntly.

“Because if I had not let Filka fool me into thinking she was an Austrian prince, most of which came out of my own foolish head when she was hiding her identity, Świnka would not have abducted her. I don’t feel responsible for my brother-in-law dying, because he could have grappled with the coachman sent to watch him and help him grab Filka.  And because Milena believed me when I said the boy, Jacenty, was really named Freidrich Hapsburg. And it was clever of Filka to cover Sewek’s slip starting to say her real name, and I spoilt it all.” She sniffed hard. “And Sewek and Filka have been so good to me and forgiving, and that poor man had to take Świnka to Austria and got wounded when Świnka was freed.”

“He’d have done something else,” grunted Mikołaj.

“Maybe; but what if he was only tempted by having a prize like an Austrian prince as a hostage?” said Joanna. “I feel responsible,  even if more events were in train. And I have been nursing Lord Sokółowski to the best of my ability while he has been under this roof; but I heard him say to Lord Wojciech that he would never fight with two sabres at once again because he can’t turn his left forearm anymore.”

“He was a noted swordsmen with two weapons,” said Mikołaj. “What, did you want to emulate him, to carry his torch forward on his behalf? It’s high time he married and got a son to do that.”

Joanna flushed.

“How can I be as good as a man who has trained from childhood?  Though ... though I did used to watch and copy the drills,” she said, digging a toe into the carpet.

“Show me,” said Mikołaj, standing, and handing her his sabre.

Joanna swallowed hard and held the sabre still, in front of her, loosening up with the foot drills. Then she went through all she could remember of the sabre drills. She was a little out of breath as she handed her father his sabre.

“Queen of Poland, I had a natural swordsman under my eye for years and never realised it,” whispered Mikołaj. “If you picked that up watching others, it would be a crime not to train you.  And a crime not to ask a pre-eminent swordsman to do it.  And I have to say that Władysław Sokółowski is probably the best swordsman in Poland. And that is even taking Sewek and Wojciech into account. I trained Władysław after his father died, and set him  training my son and Godson, which is one reason they are so good.  The banner of the Falcons pride themselves on swordsmanship. I am glad the personal matters between your brother, his Godbrother and Władysław have been cleared up, the clans have usually been allies.”

“I thought the decision was mine?” asked Małgorzata, amused.

“It would have been if your daughter hadn’t managed to turn into my son,” said Mikołaj. “And if she’s going to go dressed as a boy like our daughter-in-law, or is that ensign-in-law,  having our son in the Sokółowscy household strengthens the alliance. She’s too young to consider a marriage alliance and not to train her would be a crime.”

“As you say, my lord,” said Małgorzata with a smile. “So long as this is what you truly want, Joasia; you’ve seen how Seweryn has run Phyllis quite ragged as Jacenty. He’s carried her back from the hill more than once, poor child.”

“Filka doesn’t give up and nor shall I; she has inspired me,” said Joanna.

“I’ll speak to him,” said Mikołaj. “And you will need a name.”

“Closest is Jan,” said Joanna. “I’m not keen though. “I’ve never been fond of the name ‘Joanna’.”

“You were named for an aunt of mine,” said Małgorzata. “And then she had the bad timing to die not long after you were christened.”

“Why, I can use my confirmation name,” said Joanna, beaming broadly. “Bronisława is the female version of Bronisław after all. And the Blessed Bronisława was a cousin of St. Jacenty, so that ties in with the name Filka took.”

“I greet my son, Bronisław,” said Mikołaj, gravely.

“You’ve been talking to that interfering English daughter-in-law of yours, haven’t you?” said Władysław Sokółowski.

“I take that little girl seriously; she’s no fool,” said Mikołaj.  “And yes, I have, but I also discovered that my daughter, who is at the moment my son, has taught herself the footwork and sabre drills by watching others. I was impressed.”

Władysław looked at him through narrowed eyes for a long minute.

“As I don’t for one moment suppose that you have softening of the brain in your old age, my lord, and as you have always been harder on Seweryn and Wojciech than on anyone else, I trust your judgement. I want to see though.”

“Of course you do.”

Joanna was nervous about being put through her paces in front of a man her father called the best swordsman in Poland.

Władysław watched without comment.

“Assume that your right arm is injured; put it behind your back and repeat the exercises with your left,” he said.

Joanna saw her father’s eyebrows raise slightly.

She did as she was told, a little awkwardly at first, but swiftly translating the movements.

“A mistake or two but only to be expected,” said Władysław. “I’ll teach the ... boy. If you work hard, young Bronek you might even have the makings of a swordsman.”

“Thank you, my lord,” faltered Joanna.

Władysław turned to Mikołaj.

“I will, at some point, travel south to see Wojciech,” he said. “He has uncovered a half-brother of mine. Your whelp has filled me with ambition to pass my skills on rather than whine about the loss of some use of an arm. You’ll want to cut her hair and dress her suitably.”

“Yes, she can use some of Seweryn’s old clothes which he grew out of,” said Mikołaj. “The ones which were too big for Phyllis.”

Joanna smiled ruefully. The English girl was tiny, especially seen next to Joanna’s tall and splendid brother.

Lord Władysław, her lord, she reflected he was now, was also tall, but slender; he did not look intimidating, or even muscular, though she knew from tending the sabre slash which had severed a tendon and chipped the bone of his left arm that he had muscles like whipcord under his customarily black clothing. But for those whipcord muscles he would be skinny; and his long ascetic face with its prominent nose reminded him of the falcon his family was named for. He was clean-shaven and his head was also shaved to a short fuzz all over. Władysław saw her looking a little doubtfully at his hair when considering how short he wanted her hair cut, and with a lightning fast move, like a viper striking, his right hand shot out to grab one of her long blonde plaits and pull her towards him. Joanna gave a little squeak, and kicked.

He laughed.

“And that is why you don’t have long hair, Bronek; it can be used against you. Seweryn’s is too fine to get a good hold on, which is his protection. Long moustaches the same. Moreover I spend time at court in one of the ridiculous wigs so beloved of the west, and uncomfortable clothing and a twig for a sword. I’ll teach you to fight with a twig as well, but I won’t make you go to court.”

“Is it true that you spy?” blurted out Joanna.

“Now who told you that?”

“Filka; she said you had that sort of air about you.”

“Ah, embassy brat, of course,” said Władysław. “And why is that important?”

“My plaits would match my hair if you needed me to be a girl,” said Joanna. “If I kept them.”

He elevated one arched eyebrow.

“Are you actually volunteering for that sordid business?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes,” said Joanna. “I could help.  Women talk a lot about things you know. Milena is always full of stories about people in the city and at court, and what she’s heard, and some of what she says sounds as though she hasn’t thought it through ... which is why I was more of a fool to pass nonsense to her,” she blushed. “Do you know what I did?”

“Yes; your father was completely honest with me,” said Władysław. “He thinks you have learned discretion. You will understand if I reserve judgement on that.”

“Of course, my lord.  I did learn a lot though, and a lot of it was that I want to make amends. I could do that.”

“I’ve cultivated a friendship with the Topór banner to learn about them.  If I introduce any of them to you, you can’t go falling in love and talking to them to warn them,” he said. “If you feel someone is, or could be persuaded to be, loyal to the crown not their family, you will come to me, not talk to them. Is that clear?” He caught her chin to look intently into her eyes with his own piercing ones. They were not brown as she thought they must be, but dark green, amber-flecked.

“I understand, my lord,” she said. “I’m not likely to be falling in love, I am not sure how one does it.”

He laughed a harsh laugh and let her go.

“I’m informed that it happens unbidden; but perhaps, my little fledgeling, you have ice water in your veins as they say I do in mine.”

“I hope so, my lord,” said Joanna.

He laughed again.

“Those who say it are not being complimentary,” he said.

“Oh! It seems admirable to me to be able to make decisions without foolish emotions colouring them,” said Joanna. “I am trying hard not to feel all the stupid jealous things which made me act badly. I  want to be cool and calm and utterly unruled by emotion.”

“Unfortunately for you, you are at an age where emotion rages from all points of the compass, like a tempest trying to tear you apart and when you try to ride the wind, you end up reaping the whirlwind.  Youth is angry and jealous, and woes are more deeply despairing and joys are more elevated and all-consuming. One learns to control such things, but it takes a goodly pinch of time.”

“Maybe shocks work the same as time.”

“Maybe.  You will come to me if you are feeling consumed by anything; I am your lord, I am here for you. I don’t guarantee to understand, for you are, like it or not, female, and females are strange creatures to we males. But I will always listen.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Joanna. He was a different sort of man to Sewek; but he had a sense of humour, which was at least one thing. “Do you beat your pages?”

“I’ve never had one before.  Probably, if you disobey wilfully. Not for mistakes.” His eyes gleamed at her. “However I will punish sloppy sword work by striking where you should be guarding, which will feel like a beating.”

She nodded.

“I’ve seen Sewek training Filka,” she said. “And I knew I was better than Jacenty, as she was being called, and it made me angrier, because why would my brother train a weak little boy when he could train me. Only I did not ask him, and feigned dislike of such things.” She gave a self-mocking smile. “I cut off my nose to spite my face; but I know now how strong Filka is to take Sewek’s harshest training to make her better.”

He nodded.

“If you know yourself, you are half way towards being a warrior.  If you learn to read and know the enemy as well, you will be invincible. I’ve often thought it’s why Seweryn makes such a good showing; I’m a better swordsman but he understands people better. Learn that from him.”

“What about his friend Wojciech?” asked Joanna.

Władysław laughed.

“Wojciech is a force of nature,” he said. “He ... he places himself firmly into the belief that he is in the right and therefore must prevail.  He’s pretty good at anticipating other people as well,” he added. “He’d probably make a good priest if he wasn’t such a formidable warrior.”

“It’s probably just as well he isn’t leading a crusade,” laughed Joanna.

“I shouldn’t mind pointing him at Russia with simple commands like “Go! Kill! Subdue!” said Władysław. “No, I wrong him. He is intelligent and has his sensitive side. He recognised my half-brother, and promptly took the lad under his wing despite our differences at your age, just because it was right to do so.  He and your brother made my life a bit of a misery at times. Oh, don’t look dismayed; I don’t take such things out on whelps who knew nothing about it. They were perfectly normal brats, and I was the youngest in the family, and knew nothing of being pranked by younger ones. I over-reacted and they over-reacted to me over-reacting.  You’ll recognise that pattern I suspect.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Joanna. “Do you dislike my brother?”

“On the contrary; I like the man the boy grew into very much,” said Władysław. “But if you ever tell him, I will deny it.”

 

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.