Darker Jewels (25 page)

“I know nothing shameful about you, nothing.” Rakoczy did not move from his place at the foot of the bed. “I swear by all the lost gods, Xenya, that neither of your kinsmen has told me anything to your discredit but that they think you are too thin and you married later than is fashionable. And at the order of the Czar. What shame are you talking about? Tell me, and I will help you.”

Her eyes were filled with hopeless anger. “Why?”

“Why should you tell me, or why should I help you?” he inquired, his voice steadying and tranquil. “The answer would be the same; you are my wife. And while I have never been married before, I understand my obligation. I respect bonds, Xenya, even ones such as this.”

“You can have none to me,” she said, her voice now hardly audible.

“There, I fear, you err.” He let her have time to drink more of the spirits of wine, both to bolster her courage and to loosen her tongue. “Whatever you have done, Xenya, it makes no difference, I promise you.”

The silence between them was vast; the shutter had stopped banging, either secured or whipped away on the wind.

She drank the last of the spirits of wine. Her hands were shaking as she reached out and gave the cup to Rakoczy. “They say my father was killed when the Mongols entered the house. They say he held them off. They say he was defending
...”
She ran out of words.

“They say?” His voice low and gentle, Rakoczy said, “And what is the truth.”

It was more than she could do to look at him. She trembled. “He ran. It didn’t matter. Others caught him. They killed him. I think I heard him screaming. But there were eight of them. With me.” She doubled over, her arms clenched at her waist. She tried not to sob.

Rakoczy had expected this answer, or something like it, nevertheless it stunned him; he had been unable to resign himself to that human ferocity since he left Babylon. “Eight of them. How old were you?”

“Eleven,” she answered when she could control herself enough not to weep.

“And your mother?” Rakoczy asked.

“She was at the Convent of the Mercy of God, where they had taken the pregnant women and babies. It is on an island, and there were bowmen to defend it. She . . . my mother was pregnant then, but she miscarried.” She looked away, whispering, “God punished her for my sin.”

A thousand years ago Rakoczy would have condemned such assumptions roundly without hesitation. Now he went carefully, unwilling to open old wounds. “Did she say so?”

“When we prayed for the soul of my father. She told me that if I had not shamed her she would have delivered my father’s son, to live to bring honor to his father’s memory. As it is, all five of her children are dead but me. Most of them never finished their first year. My mother says now that she was given a warning that she did not heed, and now my sin stains her as well. She has begged God and the Virgin to keep me from sinning again.” She was still breathing too fast, but not with panic. “And Father Iliya has warned me many times that those who sin once are more likely to sin again. If I had not been the cause of my father’s death, I—”

Rakoczy was no longer content to withhold his response entirely. He said as rationally as he could, “You were not the cause of your father’s death. Mongols were the cause of his death. Mongols killed him, not you. You owe nothing to him for that.”

She started to protest, to defend her dead father, then tears filled her eyes. “He left me.” Her thin wail was as sharp and penetrating as a poignard. her hands locked together, all red and white. “A wagon was being readied for us. We were going to escape. He said he would wait in the wagon, but he didn’t. He saw them break into the house and he left me.” Her voice dropped even lower. “He was afraid. Oh, God, my God. Most of the servants were gone. No one stopped them. They carried bows and pikes and axes. They killed the maid—they said she was too old.”

“And they raped you because you were a child,” said Rakoczy.

Xenya crossed herself. “It is my shame,” she murmured.

“No, it is not,” said Rakoczy. He bent to put the golden cup on the floor beside the bed. “Xenya, no. You have no shame in this. It should be the shame of those who raped you, and those who permitted it to happen, and those who wished shame on you, but it is never yours.”

She stared at him as if he had suddenly run mad. “Don’t you understand what happened to me?” She grabbed the blankets more tightly, no longer able to restrain her weeping; her whole body shook as if with feverish chill. “Those eight Mongols. They took turns with me, all of them. They—”

“Raped you,” said Rakoczy evenly.

She refused to look at him. “I must never say it.”

“You may say it to me,” Rakoczy assured her.

“No. No. I must keep my silence. It cannot be discovered. It must never be discovered.” She gasped as a wind-flung object struck the side of the house, then dropped noisily downward. “No one must ever know. No one.”

“But you know, Xenya Evgeneivna,” Rakoczy said with compassion in his dark eyes.

Xenya crossed herself again. “I must forget it. I must put it from my mind.”

Rakoczy watched her as he said, “But you haven’t been able to, and your family have not let you, because they insist on being ashamed and command you to bear it with them.”

“I am defiled,” she whispered.

“No. You were raped,” he said. “It may seem to your family that you have sinned, but I do not believe it of you. I have seen too many women take the burden you cany; you are innocent, Xenya.” He concealed the anger he felt toward the Shuiskys and Xenya’s mother for what they had done; he feared that Xenya would believe that anger was directed at her.

She wailed, shaking her head in denial. “They want to spare me greater shame.” She tried to wipe her tears away, with little success. “I shouldn’t have told you. I ought not to have—”

He would not let her continue this way. “You may say anything you wish to me, Xenya. You will not offend or shock or disgust me.”

“But I will,” she said. “My family warned me and warned me: no one must ever know and I must forget.” This was a litany for her, repeated like a prayer. “It can never be revealed or discussed. It must be forgotten. By everyone.”

“Then why do they constantly remind you of it while requiring you to deny it happened?” he asked with far more tenderness than ire as he looked at her mottled, drawn face. “Xenya, Xenya, what they have done to you—the Mongols and your relatives— is a double betrayal. You have suffered twice. To force you to accept a burden you are not permitted to acknowledge is an outrage.”

She stared at him through her tears. “They have protected me,” she told him unsteadily.

“No. Your father did not protect you and your family have not protected you.” He made the effort to say this without condemnation. “And now they have relinquished the right to protect you. But I will, if you will grant me that privilege.”

“Privilege?” It was as if she did not comprehend the word.

“Yes,” he said at once, then sat back, deliberately calming himself and giving her the opportunity to talk. A short while later as Xenya tried again to dry her tears, he said, “Will you give me your hand, Xenya?”

“My hand?” she asked him blankly, then slipped into her elusive manner. “It is yours for the taking, my husband.”

Rakoczy shook his head once. “That isn’t what I asked you, Xenya Evgeneivna. I asked if you will give me your hand.” He lay his right hand on the quilted coverlet, palm up.

“If it is—” she began only to be cut off.

“If you want to take my hand, it would please me. If taking my hand is a painful duty, then spare us both,” he said, his voice deep and soft. He remained unmoving, his dark, compelling eyes on her hands instead of her face.

A muffled crash from the stable followed by a frightened whinny and the sound of kicking hooves brought Xenya erect in the bed, the rosy mottling fading from her cheeks. As the distant, sleepy voice of one of the grooms strove contrapuntally with the storm, the terror went from Xenya’s eyes; she blushed. “I am very foolish. Forgive me.”

Rakoczy did not change his attitude. “There is nothing to forgive. Nothing.”

She pulled on the covers, drawing them closer to her chin once again. “God has not forgiven me. Father Iliya said so.”

It was tempting to revile the priest, or to select examples in Scripture that would counter what Father Iliya had said, but he was a stranger—a stranger challenging her most deeply held beliefs. So he kept his hand in place and he said, “Xenya Ev- geneivna, I will make an agreement with you.” He could feel her wince. “You need not fear my wishes and my whims, now or ever.”

“And what do I agree to do?” Her face was stubborn now. “You are entitled to the use of my body for the birth of your children. Your agreement might not last long, and then I would be at the mercy of—”

He turned his eyes on her and for once did not disguise their impact. “I will not use your body in any way but to house and clothe and feed it until and unless you wish me to.” She turned away from his gaze, but he continued. “If that time should come, I will tell you then what you may expect of me.” It was the truth to a point and he offered himself the inward consolation that it was not likely that she would ever reach a point where she would want to know more about his nature than she knew now.

She did her best to look relieved. “I will pray for you,” she said quietly.

He started to bow and withdraw when he decided to take another chance. “I am grateful for your prayers, but I would prefer that you talk with me.”

She was startled enough to stare at him once more. “Talk with you?”

“Yes,” he said gently. “You are alone here, but for your two maids. You’ve already admitted that the terem is boring. I am a stranger and know little of Russia beyond what I have learned on behalf of the King of Poland. It would be most useful for me to know more.” He spoke easily, lightly, as if they were chatting after a meal. “Your charity work must have shown you many things about Moscovy that most who live here do not generally learn. Therefore I request the chance to talk with you. We will learn to know each other better and you will assist me to become a more capable emissary.”

“I suppose this ... is possible,” she said, her eyes suspicious but her face smiling.

“Good,” said Rakoczy with what he hoped was the right combination of enthusiasm and distance. He had no wish to frighten her; he wondered if she would come to trust him. Once more he started to bow European-fashion as he prepared to leave the room.

She made a sound in her throat. “I don’t know what to call you,” she complained as he looked back at her.

“My ... ah ... Christian name is Ferenc. My father’s name—” He broke off, remembering his father who was called a King because he administered a district that took more than five summer days and double that number of good horses to ride across. “I suppose Nemo would be one way to call him,” he said, his face remote: both Greek and Latin meanings were applicable, although his father had never heard either tongue. In Greek
nemo
meant “from the grove” and it was in the sacred grove at the depth of the year that he had come to the blood of his god. In Latin
nemo
meant “no one”.

“Ferenc Nemovich,” she said shyly but with the first sign of easing tension.

“Yes, Xenya Evgeneivna?” He was being deliberately playful now, taking pleasure in the first, tentative gesture she made toward him.

“Why do you want to know about the charities I do? It is wrong to boast of such service.” She was no longer clinging to the blanket but her fingers continued to move restlessly over the quilted wool, wary as siege sentries.

“I am a foreigner here,” he said directly. “There are not many ways for me to learn about this place. The servants here say nothing, and what they say I suspect is reported to Skuratov. If

Boris were not willing to show me favor my situation would be much more difficult.” He resumed his place on the end of the bed. “But it is my task to learn what I may about Moscovy, not for King Istvan alone, but for those who seek to know more of Russia. They say that anyone who treats with England in these times must also be ready to treat with Moscovy. When my embassy returns to Poland—and you need not fear that day, Xenya—part of what I will take with me to make my way in the world, as exiles must, is my knowledge of Moscovy.” He smiled once.

She would not look at him. “When do you go? When will you leave?”

“I don’t know,” said Rakoczy with simple candor. “I serve at the wish of two rulers: Czar Ivan and King Istvan. Either of them may command me, and I must in honor obey.”

Xenya nodded twice. “I see,” she said. “Very well.”

He could not see her averted features; there was no way to read her thoughts, her fears. ‘Will you talk with me?” He asked it gently, easily, as if they were old friends.

She said nothing.

The roof near the crest shrieked at the raking of the wind. Driven by the four tremendous gusts, the alarm bell in the inner courtyard clanged just loud enough to be heard in the house.

There was a wild look in her eyes; she reached out blindly and took his hand.

Rakoczy looked at her hand and closed his small fingers gently, not pressing or confining her. He adjusted his posture sufficiently to allow him to remain in position in comfort. They sat that way together, speaking rarely, for the rest of the wind- haunted night.

From Hrabia Dariusz Zary to Ferenc Rakoczy, Hrabia Saint-Germain:

Worthy foreigner and deputy to our Polish King;

Our delays are at last exhausted. We have been ordered to depart at the end of the week, with escort as far as Vyazma, barring serious fighting to the east of Moscovy.

We were ordered by Father Pogner not to include your dispatches and reports in the documents we carry, but my mandate comes from King Istvan, not Father Pogner, and for that reason I will do as my King commands me. I will also warn you that the priest is determined to discredit you and will do everything in his power to bring you down.

If it were not that you are the chosen servant of the King, I would not place myself between a priest and a foreigner. But King Istvan has been constant in his approval of you, and he charged you with a task you have been at pains to honor and to carry out. As long as you proceed in honor, how can we refuse to assist you without forfeiting our honor?