“Will she send me away?” William of Hapsburg asked me in a letter. We once wrote frequently, though his Polish is poor and often he resorts to German. He is the reason Jadwiga, my sister, lived in Vienna for so long, coming home from her betrothed’s land only when our elder sister was laid to rest in the family plot.

She was taken up in the Austrian court, trained to be the royal sister of the Queen of Hungary and Poland. My confidant and lady-in-waiting, maybe. But never a threat as she has now become. William sees this change, as I do, but he notes that only his position is altered. He does not know that I am constantly in wait for a final say.
I fold the letter carefully and place it back inside the writing desk. The words that were written at the creases of the paper are fading from the constant folding and unfolding of the parchment. My hand rests on the corner of the desk as I close it and I cannot help but notice that my fingers have grown slender and paler since last I noticed. More ladylike. More queenly.

It has been two years since my father’s death. I was to have Hungary and Poland, and I reveled in this as Jadwiga sat piously outside King Ludwik Węgierski’s chambers, fingering her rosary and praying for the man we called father. She sat there for hours, waiting for the royal doctors to prepare his body and the royal guard to retrieve it. And she remained there even after he was gone, weeping bitterly though my mother, now dowager Queen of Hungary, remained dry eyed. I, as well, kept my calm.

Why would I cry for this man’s death when in life he was useless to me, offering me position only when he was due to enter the grave. I would not. He is the one who senselessly promised me to Sigismund, leaning favor on Sigismund’s father, Charles I of Bohemia. Holy Roman Emperor or not, his second son is no honor to my name.
Then I was princess, now I am to be queen. Even my hands, now held one inside the other as I gaze beyond the window’s thick panes and black lead stencils, know they are queen’s hands. But not yet. Or, rather, not anymore.
What is Sigismund? He is a thorn in my side, and I must hide it, must not allow him to prick those near me and lessen my chances at what I may manage to gain. Poland does not want Sigismund either. For two years they have debated behind my back as I sat in as queen, and now they decide they do not want a union with Hungary.

They want Jadwiga.

Last night I announced my need for rest later than Jadwiga. She was already at peace in our shared chambers, her eyes closed as her young head lay upon the embroidered pillow. I assumed she was asleep and my maids-in-waiting were silent as they dressed me for slumber. I slipped between the covers beside her and lay on my back, staring at the tapestry patterns of the canopy above us. The maids pulled the draperies closed around our bed and I heard the click of the door as they left us. My thoughts quieted and soon I was halfway to slumber when I felt Jadwiga curl closer to my side.

“Mary?” she whispered. “Do you think Mother will choose for me?”

I felt a shiver run along my legs and wished the maids had left the brick now at our feet on the fire for a little longer. It is not nearly warm enough.

“Mother has told you what you should do for your country,” I answer, eyes still closed. If I was cruel I would tell her that it was a sin to break her betrothal to William, that she will answer to God for it if she longs too much to be queen rather than an obedient wife.

But I do not tell her this.

“But sister, she tells me only of the consequences,” Jadwiga said. I could hear the difficulty of the decision in her voice. “She tells me not of what is right or wrong. How am I to choose?”

I cannot answer her. I feign sleep by stilling my breath and soon she turns to her own side of the bed and I feel her body relax against the musty mattress.

She is unmarried and younger than I by three years. She doesn’t know what it is to set aside yourself for others’ sake, and I do not know what the magnates have seen in her. Yes, she prays continuously for Poland’s citizens. But what can the prayer of a child accomplish?

I am drawn from my remembering by mother’s talk with her sister, Countess Katrina of Celje. I look down at the writing desk under my palm. I find myself opening the desk and holding the letter again.

Will she send me away? William asks. What of I?
I have not replied to William’s question for weeks. It is cruel of him to care so much about his own plight when my title has been stolen from under me. Still, I cannot let on that I am envious of Jadwiga. Lesser Poland will soon learn that they have appointed the wrong sister, and then she will be resented on the thrown.

Now I will send my reply to William in Hapsburg, if only to detail what I have seen and not to reassure him of any future. I sit calmly at my writing table, though I am sure of what is to occur in the days to follow and it suits me not.

I write slowly, knowing that when I am through I will join mother in sewing shirts for the poor. Needlework plagues me now, when all I can do is wait.

“Your beloved left her chambers this morning, veiled entirely in black. She confided in me that she was unsure of what to follow – her heart, or her country and the Church. Never has she had such a decision before her, and I do not envy her this task of choice.”

I rest my quill on the edge of the inkwell, the scratch of the tip quieted for a moment as I word the matter delicately in my mind before resuming the details on paper.

“I accompanied her to the Wawel Cathedral, knowing only of our plans for our daily morning services with Mother. We knelt for an hour, crossing ourselves before the crucifix after we had prayed. Mother and I took our leave, she to speak to Garai about Hungarian matters, I to lend my hand where I may.

“Jadwiga did not accompany us as we left the cathedral. She has knelt for many hours before the cross. She may very well find her answer in God and remain by your side. Nothing is yet for certain.

“Just know, brother William, that I do believe her heart belongs to you most completely.”

I ended the letter with details of court, finding that the more I wrote of last night’s dance I lessened my anger. I signed it after a moment of considering what else to tell William. I would have liked to go on – certain that my sister’s fiancé is the only one now that I can speak to of anything – but I am reminded constantly by Jadwiga’s presence that it is only my sister he thinks of. He cares not for my feelings, only for his childhood friend that joined him at the Viennese court when they were still unaware of their callings.

My sister has recounted to me the delight of wandering the castle corridors with William, the adventures they shared as children of the royal nursery. This was long before she was bound inside the clothes of a woman, and I cannot help but wonder if she loves William as a playmate or as a suitable match.

I do not have long to wonder on this. The door to our chambers opens and I hear the door guard announcing a visit from a priest of Wawel Cathedral. Jadwiga is still praying. The priest left the altar shortly after us, and he speaks in low tones with Mother.

She is indecisive. Of course she is, she is a mere child. Poland will not accept her with William, just as they would not accept Sigismund and I. They wish her to accept the hand of the Duke of Lithuania. I am not certain how they may find him suitable; he is false in his religion.

I scatter cuttlefish bone over the letter, watching the wet ink dull in the light until it is dry. I press the letter into thirds and melt a patch of wax, sealing it with the crest in my ring. My maid would gladly do this for me, but correspondence is the only thing I have left and I find it calming to see the liquid wax shape into the royal crest. I will leave it to post later today. Now I strive to hear what the priest is saying.

“It is going on three hours now, Your Majesty,” he says. I stand idle at the window, feigning interest in a flock of doves that have landed to rest on the windowsill. He does not suspect that I am listening. The birds rustle amongst themselves and settle in again, feet hooked over the stone ledge.

“Has she weakened?” Mother asks. She has tried to reason the Duke, Jagiello, into Jadwiga’s mind. They say he is willing to convert, to turn to our Savior and Father for the good of Poland, for Jadwiga. She listens to this reasoning – and all that anyone tells her, for she and I were born to consider before acting – but has yet to respond.

The priest shakes his head, I see Mother’s look of distress as I glance sideways, my eyes hidden by my hood.

Even now as she kneels in the chapel, I fear she has let no one in on where she is led. Even I, who share her chambers and her bed at night, know nothing more than that she wishes to remain William’s. I know not if she is in love with him, or if he is simply her comfort. They have known each other nearly as long as she and I have known one another. I am again conflicted as to whether they are bosom friends or he can lead her as husband.

“She does not stir even as one enters or leaves her presence. She is troubled, and that is clear on her countenance. There is a struggle on her shoulders and try as I may to aid her with the hand of God, this must be her choice.” He bows his head solemnly to Mother as he speaks. He knows that if he assists in this taxing affair, the blame will lie on his conscience if Poland later finds her unworthy. That alone is why he may not aid her.

I know not to interrupt, but I wish I may. She is a child. She cannot know what it means to choose between William and the Duke. William and Poland. William and God.

Yes, it is clear what she must do as a duty to her family and her country, but she is a child. I know it is wrong of me, and I will have to confess it later, but I wish for her choice. No matter what I have written to William, I would take the choice with joy and make my decision for all of my subjects to see.

I would choose the Duke, pagan heart or not. And Poland would love me then, they would see what I had forfeited for their sake. But I was not consulted in the matter of Sigismund, and now I am tied blindly.

I turn my gaze out the window again, away from the priest’s nodding head and Mother’s sullen expression. My hands tug lightly at my sleeves. They will be too short soon, unacceptable to appear in. Not that the length of my sleeves will ever weigh heavily on anyone’s mind. They will all have their heads turned to Jadwiga and her sacrifices. Or maybe her selfish desire. Mayhap they will want her even more if she refuses them. Then they may call her wise for keeping with King Ludwik Węgierski’s arrangement. It is he who wanted William for her.

I can no longer stand here and wait for her. I turn again, this time to Mother. I join her and the priest. He is a small man, even against my feminine frame his height is brief. Perhaps this is also why he will not guide her. He is afraid he will not hold much sway.

“May I be there to comfort her, Your Highness?” I ask, the formality familiar on my tongue. Jadwiga and I call her Mother only in private; we have addressed everyone by their title since speech came to us.

She can see that I ask her permission for my own sake, that I am unconcerned for my sister’s conscience. It is difficult for me to puzzle out to whom she wishes the throne to go. Either way, she will remain the dowager queen. I wish to believe that she favors me, that we are alike in our manner of rule. Still, I know not what she has to say on the matter.

She does not speak of the selfish nature of my selfish request. She only nods and allows me to follow the priest from the room. The priest and I walk side by side in the hall. There is no differing status between his parochial background and my royal one.

This is my third walk along the path to the Wawel Cathedral today; one in the morning with Mother and Jadwiga, one returning to the palace with only Mother. My legs tire as they set once again toward the cathedral, but I walk through it as I see the towers against the sky.

The spires reach upward as no other edifice in Krakow, stating their importance to the city with their cold blocks of stone and resolute bell towers. Just now they are tolling, the hour – which I care not to count as my steps lag with the priest’s pace – reminding the Polish that they are late, as always, that once more they are to work faster if they wish to get anywhere.

Along the way I see a man on the corner. He presents wilting flowers to workers as they pass, hoping they will stop to offer him a coin in exchange for a pretty piece for their wives. The elder and middle-aged men pass, shaking their heads at the foolishness of the young men. But they are in love and someone’s beau, buying a handful of stems to present behind stable doors or in a hidden back room.

The front steps of the cathedral clear off as I climb them, lifting the hem of my gown ever so slightly to make it up the steep steps. Those passing by take their glances and bow their heads respectfully, knowing that I am to reign somewhere even if it is not here.

The doors are open, an invitation to the people of the streets to rest their souls awhile. No one waits inside, it is too late in the day for even the most pious of ladies to be about. They are all at home, tending their children as their men work against the ever-ringing cathedral bells.

The priest does not follow me to the altar. From the back of the cathedral I see Jadwiga’s silhouette against the candles, the pew lights dimmed now that service is over and only she is here to use the light. The stained glass on either side of the cathedral alters the light that rests against the stone floors. The patches disappear under my hoop skirts as I walk the aisle.

I do not plan to disturb her. She is distressed, that is plain in the stoop of her shoulders, her curved spine straining her corset beneath her gown. I sit three pews away from the altar, a pew for every year’s difference between Jadwiga and I.

There is hope that if she cannot give up William, Poland will have no choice. They will have to accept me, Sigismund or not. They have no other to warm their throne.
Jadwiga crosses herself, and I prepare to stand, ready for her decision. She will not leave William, I know she cannot.

But she does not turn away from the altar. Instead she stands, eyes still cast downward, and removes the veil from her hood. She presses her shoulders back and walks around the altar slowly, holding the scarf in front of her, each end trailing the floor and draping like water from her hands. Black water. She approaches the crucifix and kneels humbly before it, her shoulders breaking again from their proud stance. The thin fabric glides into folds at the floor, a small mass on the stone.

She is praying again, I note this as her head bows. I no longer feel like an intruder, watching her back as she struggles with her future. My own legacy is tangled into hers, and I begrudge that the next step I am allowed to take is clasped so closely to what she desires. I am the elder, I am the rightful heir. And here I sit in my pew, waiting for her conscience to clear or muddle.

She crosses herself once more and stands at the cross, leaning her forehead against the wood. Her hood is pushed back on her head, and she has lost the presentable appearance she had this morning. The scarf is still in her hands, clutched weakly.

Now she leans back from the crucifix and raises the veil above her head, draping it carefully on the outstretched arms. She raises her face to the ceiling, her hood finally tugging too firmly at the pins securing it in her upswept hair. It tumbles away from her head to the floor, but silently so that she seems not to notice. And then she kneels, but not piously, only to reach beneath her skirts. I wonder what she is doing and crane my neck for a better view. After a moment of fumbling with her many layers of petticoats, she slips her hand toward the foot of the cross.

When she turns toward the door of the cathedral, it seems that she sees nothing but the doors. The items she has left at the foot of the cross are her shoes.

She has offered her scarf and shoes to God, clothing his cross in exchange for answers. She is not smiling, but the look on her face is not of displeasure. I study her, looking for the decision she has made. She sees me and turns from the doors, greeting me cheerfully.

“I will love him, Mary,” she says. I nod.

“And he will love thee,” I say, though I know not whom she speaks of. Will she love our dear William or the Duke?

“He will change for me,” she says decidedly. “He will change for Poland, and for our throne.”

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