Читать книгу The Trumpeter of Krakow - Eric Philbrook Kelly - Страница 3

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It was in late July of the year 1461 that the sun rose one morning red and fiery as if ushering in midsummer’s hottest day. His rays fell upon the old city of Krakow and the roads leading up to it, along which rolled and rocked a very caravan of peasants’ wagons. They were drawn mostly by single horses hitched into place by the side of a rough pole that served for shaft; for wheels there were stout pieces of board nailed tightly together and cut round about, baked with fire at the rim to harden them; for body they had but rude cross boards as a floor, with sides and ends of plaited willow reeds, so that the wagons had the appearance of large baskets traveling on wheels. As they moved along a road often rough from holes and stones, out through fields sometimes, and even across streams, the wagons pitched about like little boats on a wind-swept sea.

In many cases the drivers were walking alongside the carts, flicking their long whips now and then above the horses’ backs to give the animals a little encouragement, while upon the seats sat the patient figures of women and children.

In the wagons was all manner of merchandise—vegetables, flowers, ducks, hens and geese, pigs, butter and milk. Here a driver was conveying a load of skins, here one had nothing but black earth for enriching city gardens. Another, driving a load of poultry, wore around his neck, like beads, garland after garland of dried mushrooms strung upon strings. At the back of the picture rose the foothills of the Carpathians, misty and golden in the early sun, and at a distance the Vistula River curved like a silver bracelet about the Wawel Hill. All about was the early-morning smell of wet grass and fresh earth and growing things.

Market day had begun. All night some of these wagons had been traveling along the highways that spread out from the great highway that was the Krakow, Tarnov, Lvov, Kiev route. Some had been on the march for two days and two nights, so distant were the borders of the province. Here were men and women in town dress from the larger centers, here were barefooted peasants in long coats and round hats, here were peasant women in rough garments but with head scarfs and shawls of dazzling colors, here were the inhabitants of a Jewish village, twelve men in black robes and black hats, with the characteristic orthodox curls hanging down in front of their ears.

Here were boys belonging to the retinue of a local szlachcic or country gentleman, their leather costumes showing up to advantage beside the rather dingy dress of the male portion of the peasantry. Here and there were women with little babies, here and there were old people trudging by the sides of their wagons up to market, as they had done for thirty or forty years past.

But every man in that caravan carried some sort of weapon, either a short knife at the belt, or quarterstaff in the hand, or huge-headed ax at the bottom of the wagon. For thieves were abroad in great number at times of market, and it was even said that there were country gentlemen of ruined fortune who were not above recouping themselves now and then at the expense of some such caravan. Usually, however, it was on the return trip that the thieves were numerous, for then each villager and peasant had gold or silver as the result of the day’s bargaining.

Although practically all these wagons carried cargoes of goods, there was one which seemed strangely empty for market day. It had two horses instead of the usual one, its shaft pole was stouter than those of the other wagons, its occupants were better dressed than the peasants and seemed somehow not like actual workers of the soil. In it rode the driver, a man of perhaps forty-five years, a woman—his wife—some ten years younger, and a boy who sat at the open end of the wagon, dangling his legs above the dirt and mud of the highway.

“Now, wife,” said the man, snapping a long whip at the off horse—his wife was sitting beside him on a rude seat at the front of the wagon—“that high tower you see is a watch tower on the Wawel Hill of Krakow. Should we go as flies the stork we should reach there by the eighth hour. See, in the distance are the two towers of the Church of Our Lady. It is a welcome sight to my eyes after these three weeks on a rocking cart.”

The woman threw back a gray hood from her face and looked ahead with longing eyes. “It is Krakow, then,” she said, “the city of my mother. Often has she told me of its glory, and yet I never had hoped to see it. God knows I wish I might see it differently and with less pain in my heart. But God gives, and man receives, and we are here at last.”

“Yes,” said the man.

For a long time they traveled along in silence. The man was musing on his early experiences in Krakow, the woman on her lost home in the Ukraine, and the boy letting his imagination run riot in speculation as to the sights that he should see in the great city.

Their thoughts were brought suddenly from their own affairs to a commotion among the carts behind them. Drivers were reining in their horses and swinging them to the left of the road, narrow as it was, in order to let some one pass. The man whose thoughts had been thus interrupted turned around, trying to discern who it might be who was pushing forward through the long line of carts, and in a moment he saw that it was a rider on a small horse.

“Way, way,” the rider was shouting. “Do you peasants think that the whole road belongs to you? ... Stay on your farm, where you belong,” he shouted angrily at a peasant driver whose horse reared suddenly from the edge of the road to the middle. “Give me room to pass. You have no business on the highroad with an animal that jumps about like that.”

“I had gone in the ditch else,” replied the peasant without surliness.

The rider glanced sharply at the contents of the man’s wagon and being assured that it contained nothing but fresh straw to be sold to brick-makers, dashed ahead until he was even with the cart which held the man and woman and boy.

The last named had been watching his advance curiously. Now this boy, Joseph Charnetski, was in his fifteenth year. He was not by any means handsome, though he could not be called ugly. His hair and his eyes were dark and his face was somewhat round and very pleasant. He wore rather rich, though travel-soiled, nether garments, not leather like those of the retainers, nor of coarse sacking like the peasants’ clothes, but of a good quality of homespun, and a thick, buttoned coat of the same material, which fell skirtlike nearly to the knees. On his feet were brown leather boots, whose tops were soft and loose, and so high that they reached almost to the bottom of the coat. On his head he wore a round hat like a turban.

The instant the rider perceived the boy, “Chlopak, chlopak (boy, boy),” he exclaimed in a rather croaky voice, “tell your old man to hold his horses. You come and hold mine.”

The boy obeyed, but as he leaped from the wagon and grasped at the horse’s bit thong, he came to the conclusion that the stranger was no friend. In those days when the world was just emerging from a period of darkness and cruelty, it was a necessity that each man should be constantly upon his guard against other men. Robbers abounded—jealous friends often descended to mean tricks; men of noble birth and breeding thought nothing of defrauding poor peasants, and among the poor peasants themselves were those who would commit crimes for the sake of gold.

Therefore when Joseph grasped at the horse’s bit rein he had already come to the conclusion, perhaps from something in the stranger’s looks or speech or manner, that he was one to be treated with caution. He was attired in a retainer’s suit of thick cloth. The jacket was short but concealed a coat of very light chain armor beneath. He wore for breeches not knickerbockers but a single leather garment that combined doublet and hose in one. The cap was round, with a hanging jewel, probably glass, dangling behind against his neck.

It was the face, however, that betrayed the soul beneath. It was a dark, oval, wicked face—the eyes were greenish and narrow and the eyebrow line above them ran straight across the bridge of the nose, giving the effect of a monkey rather than a man. One cheek was marked with a buttonlike scar, the scar of the button plague that is so common in the lands east of the Volga, or even the Dnieper, and marks the bearer as a Tartar or a Cossack or a Mongol. The ears were low-set and ugly. The mouth looked like the slit that boys make in the pumpkins they carry on the eve of Allhallows. Above the mouth was a cropped mustache which hung down at the ends and straggled into a scanty beard. The man carried at his waist a short curved sword and from the inside of his jacket could be seen protruding the jeweled handle of an Oriental dagger.

No sooner had the boy caught at his rein than the man was off his horse and with a leap had gained the wagon. Joseph’s father reached quickly under the wagon seat for a short cross-hilted sword.

“Not one step nearer,” he shouted as the man came toward him with hand outstretched as if to take his hand. “Who you may be I know not, but I stand as a Christian till I find out what your errand is.”

The stranger stopped, smiled at the ready sword still in its scabbard, though with a sudden respect in his smile, then pulled off his hat and made a bow. “I take it that you are Andrew Charnetski,” he said.

“You take too much,” answered the driver. “To strangers I am Pan^[1] Andrew Charnetski.”

[1]	Pan is a formal Polish term signifying Sir or Mr.

The stranger bowed again. “I spoke as to an equal,” he said. “I am Stefan Ostrovski of Chelm. But now I am come from Kiev where I have been on state business. It is known that one Muscovite has some important business with our Lithuanian provinces and I, though I may not say by whom, was sent to learn——” He broke off suddenly as if wishing to give the impression that his business was such that he might not speak of it in public fashion. “But on my way home men told me that a band of Tartars had come north from the Krim pillaging much of the country about. Among the houses which they had burned and the fields which they had destroyed were the house and fields of one Andrew Charnetski—nay, I ask pardon—of Pan Andrew Charnetski, who was reported to have escaped with his wife and son in the direction of Krakow, where they were said to have friends. This being true, and since I was traveling in the same direction, I sought a description of Pan Andrew and his family, and this morning when I saw a true Ukrainian cart, drawn by two horses and not by one, and bearing a man and woman and boy such as had been described to me, I took the assurance to present myself and make my greetings to you.”

Pan Charnetski scrutinized the face, the clothing, and the figure of the stranger closely. “The half is not yet told,” he said.

“Nay,” answered the other, “but the rest is perhaps a tale for you and me behind some heavy door when we reach the city of Krakow just ahead. I have heard——” He spoke significantly, then with his hands he described a circle in the air.

Charnetski watched him with his eyelids drawn half shut so that he could focus his attention upon the man and see naught of the world outside. His heart was not so cold and steady, however, as one might think from looking at his calm, composed features. In truth at the stranger’s gesture his heart was beating a tattoo against his ribs. He knew that almost every word the man had uttered was false; he knew that his name was not Ostrovski even though there had been members of that family in Chelm—not one feature of the man’s countenance was Polish. And there was that in the tone of the last words that had suggested a threat. Charnetski realized also that here was no chance meeting. It was fourteen days and more since they had left the border. This man, he reasoned, had followed them all that distance, or had perhaps been sent by some person of higher rank to intercept them before they gained entrance to the city.

“You have heard naught that concerns me,” he answered shortly. “And now since the carts are leaving me behind, will you kindly return to your horse? I have nothing to say that will be of importance to you, nor do you interest me in any way.”

Charnetski spoke truly, for the carts ahead were already some distance away and the drivers behind were shouting at him angrily for blocking the traffic.

“On the contrary,” answered the stranger, “you have that which interests me greatly. And I will not leave you until we are safe behind some door in the city. Here, boy,” he shouted at Joseph, “lead my horse along behind the wagon, for I intend to ride the rest of the way.”

Pan Charnetski’s cheeks blazed. “Now, by the lightning, you make yourself too free here,” he articulated. “State what business you have quickly and be done.”

The man glanced around the cart and he saw on the wooden floor just in front of the driver’s seat a huge yellow pumpkin. “Ha,” he said, “a pumpkin, and at this time of the year. I suppose they raise pumpkins in the winter on the steppe. What shall be the price of that pumpkin?”

“It is not for sale,” answered Charnetski.

“No?”

“I said no.”

“What if I offer its weight in gold?”

“All’s one.”

“You will not sell?”

“I tell you, no.”

“Then”—the stranger drew his sword quickly—“then you will fight for it!” And he stepped forward toward the driver.

Charnetski hesitated no longer. In the flash of an eye he had vaulted across the seat, dodged a blow of the saber, and caught the stranger’s right wrist in a grip of steel. The sword dropped with a clang. Charnetski did not let the man go, however. He threw his left hand into the small of the stranger’s leg and with clutch upon arm and leg hoisted him high and tossed him out of the cart. He fell in the mud, sputtering with rage and calling curses of every description upon Charnetski’s head. And at this minute Joseph, with admirable foresight, swung the man’s horse about and struck him smartly upon the right flank. The horse reared and capered, then dashed off down the road in the direction from which the wagons had come; at the same instant the boy leaped upon the cart and shouted to his father who climbed back to the seat and swung the long lash over the horses’ heads. They were off in a second, leaving the stranger in the middle of the highway, turning now to the right and now to the left as if uncertain whether to pursue his horse or his enemy. And Charnetski, swinging about, picked up the sword from the bottom of the cart and hurled it into the road.

Some time later they reached the Kazimierz, the Jewish city founded by King Kazimir more than one hundred years earlier. Passing through this, they came to the bridge across the Vistula which would admit them to the city of Krakow itself. Finding, however, that this bridge was undergoing repairs, they were forced to take the next bridge to the north; thence they proceeded to the fortified gate called Mikolayska, where they were challenged by the gatekeeper.