You and Mariana ride ahead of your little crowd of hunting aides and chaperones, the dogs forming a buffer in between. Marszowski obtained such a mercy by pulling at the heartstrings of Lord Paweł's chief lieutenant. So many men love not the woman they married and with the tenderness already forming between you two – well, not even a scar-faced hussar can resist a little stirring in the breast. Out of earshot but not eyesight, of course.
You're both bundled up. She, as ever, looks lovely in her furs, captivating as the snow whirls in the air after depositing about a stopa overnight. But these pines, these skinny pines! You just cannot get used to them, it's been years since you've seen them: you first thought they looked like a pike square in Pomerania and now you can't shake it. The entourage snakes around them, pikes-pikes-pikes in all directions. You take a swig from your wineskin.
"Foul time of year to be doing this, my lord," says Mariana, "but he'll lose his antlers any week now." She mimes a giant rack. "Or so I've heard, with strange knobs and nodules and everything."
"That's exciting," you say, "in France they never got very big."
"Why's that, my lord?"
"Hard times. The wars. Peasants hiding in the woods would eat anything and everything. Not even a dandelion left for the deer."
She blinks. You reckon she's trying to say something. "That sounds horrible, my lord. Worse than Livonia."
"I wouldn't know, but I'd wager a florin or three." A grim smile. You realize this isn't very good conversation for courtship. You replay seeing her nervous for the first time, before her father and surrounded by his sworn men. "You know, you can call me Stanisław if I get to call you Mariana. In private, that is."
Her cheekbones turn to apples. "I would like that," she says, with a tentative "Stanisław."
"Mariana," you reply, "Mariana. Mariana." You enunciate each sound, trying to get used to saying it aloud, to her face; you don't care if she sees it.
She cups a hand over the ear facing you and laughs. "Yes, yes, I can hear you."
"O Mariana!" you sound like you're beginning a soliloquy. Make her laugh. "O Mariana, jewel of Kodeń, your eyes are as pearls, your hair as gold and, ah– do you reckon that it'll be hard because the stags are done rutting, or easy because of the snow?"
It works. "Aw! You won't keep going? That was from the age of chivalry right there."
"Mmmmm," you pretend to debate it, doing scales with your hands. "My verses are best preserved for a songbook or a play, if an attendant hears me he may steal it and…"
"Mhm, mhm, very understandable, a bard such as yourself must be protective of such fine material."
"Indeed," you agree. "It is very good stuff." You sigh. "Mariana – it's good you're no longer 'my lady.'"
"Likewise, Stanisław," she cocks her head. "There's something about you, you know." Gulp. "Something different. Can't quite say what." But then her face flashes. "Ah! Ah! Well, a question, actually: what do you think of us ladies?"
You think the normal thoughts, but it would be strange to say it to her face. Why, though? It's true, isn't it? Mariana follows up, sounding more intrigued than anything else: "Do you think us to be dainty flowers, or wellsprings of the Devil?"
"No."
"Are you lying?"
Ehhhhhhhhhhh, what do you say, what do you say – "Maybe." She deflates.
There's a silence. Hooves crunching. A snort from your horse, the conversation of the entourage behind and the hounds yapping. It feels like an eternity. You almost feel like crying and you clear your throat and cough some. The Cold air is bad on your weak lungs; it's sharp and makes you wheeze. "I've never really known a lady," you say. "I never got very close with any in France."
"You've told me."
That's all she says. She stares. You continue. "I can remember my mother's face and that's it. She died when I was three or so. They say my father was very unkind." It is strange what they say about them. "Maybe I don't know better, but nothing seems wrong with you."
She rolls her eyes. "That's–"
"That came out wrong, that came out wrong. Mariana, the closest thing I ever had to a mother was my old nursemaid Tatjana." You look down at your hands. You're watching your words like back at the speech. "And… And, you know, she prayed all the time, superstitious as anybody, couldn't read, I loved her, I'll miss her forever, but..."
"You're talking to a lady who hunts. They hated it but I even skinned a fox once. Did you forget that we talked about Aristotle that night?"
"No, er, yes!" you're now gripping your cap, hands over your head. "That's what – I hardly know you, but nothing seems true. You seem as–" you look for words, "as smart as Zamoyski, as smart as anybody, I don't know."
She snorts. "As smart as any man, you mean. Well, no great black dogs have ever appeared before me, no man in black ever tried to seduce me, and I've certainly never swooned over a trifle. There's a…" She breaks eye contact. Thinking, not fearful, not fearful at all. "There's a difference between knowing what God wants for your kind, and what man thinks your kind is capable of."
You open your mouth to speak but she raises a finger. You obey. "Should we be wed I will be your wife, beyond just the bond it brings – I will be a good one, I will follow you and stand beside you always. That I swear to God, for that is His commandment. But you cannot think me weak." Those big eyes are so intense. "I am not weak, Stanisław. And besides, only weak men fear women."
Before you can say anything the horn sounds from behind. "Dogs found tracks, lord prince!" they shout.
"Ugh, how did we miss them?" growls Mariana, wheeling her horse about. "Fresh?" she calls out to the men, beating you to it.
"Fresh!" they reply.
She looks over her shoulder. "We can talk about it later, let's go!"
It must be hard for a peasant to hunt properly. A bow or crossbow, a few friends and dogs. Waiting, listening, trying not to breathe as they hide in trees and bushes. But, this! This is as easy as it is fun. Some droppings and tufts of fur are given to the scenthounds, the point dogs sent out after, and the horses make the snow no obstacle.
It's not before long that a posse of stags are sighted and chased down by the pointers through sheer endurance, tiring out the quarries quickly. It's a raucous time; the snow makes it easy to ride up close to the herd and simply take them down with pistols, carbines, the odd Tatar-style bow. You fire your carbine and land a perfect hit on one of the lesser stags – a heart-shot just behind the front shoulderblade – and you ignore a flash of Coligny's yawning, maimed hand in exchange for adrenaline-fuelled cackling.
But the King keeps being spared. The great hart everyone's got their eyes on, with points like church spires, zigzagging and warping in places into flats and knots and bent fork-tines, as wide as a bow. Such is tradition, the greatest kill is to be yours, the ranking man's. And it must be done up close and personal.
"Catch, lord prince!" shouts an attendant as he tosses you a lance. The King can barely run anymore; he turns about and snorts as the dogs run up and begin to hold him at bay.
But he rears up and bellows! One of the point dogs is kicked in the head, dead on the spot, and the stag breaks through their defensive line – heading straight toward you!
You raise your spear over your shoulder and try to time out an overhand thrust, but its head is down – it's a small target – the lance is caught in the antlers, it's sliding right through them! Your horse turns its flank and screams as contact is made, staggering backwards sideways. The King is dug into its guts and pushing. You withdraw your first thrust and move your grip on the spear higher up the shaft, trying to make it into a knife of sorts, stabbing the thing's head and upper back, bashing your forearms on the antlers, all to no effect even as your horse falls…
…Almost on top of you! You manage to get out of the stirrups and push off the saddle on the way down with only a moment to spare, rolling through the snow. You can't find your lance. The bleeding King looms over you. You only now register through your ringing ears that everyone and everything is barking and screaming.
A pistol appears only a foot or two above your head, its wheel spins painfully long and by God is it a misfire?! Thankfully it booms, deafening you further. The King sighs and his legs give out. Blood trickles out of his chest. You look up and the shooter's in a winter dress. Mariana?!
She drops to her knees over you – several attendants doing the same – all crossing themselves and thanking God. Everybody asks you if you're alright at the same time, sounding underwater.
You sit up and watch your own misting breath. "Yes, I'm fine, hard fall, I'm fine." You turn your attention to the now-peaceful King, the dead dog, your heaving, bloodied horse. You look behind you at the red-brown humps of the massacred herd. You start laugh-coughing, almost from fear. So fun yet so… Familiar. And not in a good way.
The attendants help you to your feet and Mariana approaches. She begins to brush the snow off you; she's very close to your face, the men are silent and watch. She must see your expression. "You're alright, lord prince, you're alright." She smiles. "I'm sorry I stole your kill, my lord." She bends down and wipes the powder off her hand in the snow.
"No, it's alright, thank you Mari– my lady." You look back at the battlefield again. "I downed one or two, I think," you say, looking at your spent carbine in the snow. "You– you had a pistol? How did you know how to use it?"
"No, I didn't, and I bow-hunt when they let me. You can learn from observation, " She enters into a harsh whisper. "One of the sworn men completely froze up and I took it out of his hand. Don't want to embarrass him."
It was a strange sensation to put down your own horse, but he was beyond saving. Then came the time to slowly, carefully butcher the herd – taking great care to save the King's neck and head – throwing organs and cuts to the hounds, praising them like good children, skinning the deer for some quick money so that the lordling-servants may buy themselves something nice. The adrenaline wears off, you shrink from the bloodshed, and the ride home is quiet save for your ringing ears, dressed deer slung over the back of every horse but your new, fresh one, donated by a chaperone.
Venison stew tonight, of course. Venison steak, too. The antlers, already removed from the King's still-fresh head, look quite fine over the head of the table. Old Paweł is (thankfully) utterly tickled by the thought of his daughter downing a prime stag and is as patronizing as he is praising – "just when I thought I've heard it all!" – and he too thanks God for your getting out of the close shave alright. You offer to replace the horse. "Oh, don't worry, lord prince. You being in one piece is payment enough for me," he says.
You stare across the table at Mariana and she stares back. There is scarcely anything to say; she saved you. She is strong. Strong as any lord, this lady. And what if it's in more ways than just one?
You know you're going to miss her when it's time to head home. And badly.
