Darker Jewels (57 page)

“We’re staying here tonight,” called out Lovell, and quickly explained the reason for this decision. “This is the first time we have faced any delay. One afternoon isn’t much of a sacrifice.” He recalled the reason for his visit. “If you want to eat with the rest of the train, let me know.”

“I’ll want to eat. As for the rest, that’s for the master to hear,” said the driver when Lovell was through. “It’s as well with me that we stop early. The horses could use the rest.” He folded his arms in his tooled-leather shuba.

From behind the wagon Rothger rode up, leading the six relief horses. He listened to what Lovell had to say, then got out of the saddle, securing the lead to the wagon and looping his mount’s reins over the edge of the driver’s box. He motioned for Lovell to follow him, then went to rap on the door to the wagon interior. “My master, Doctor Lovell would like to speak to you.” Xenya opened the door. “He is awake, but he still isn’t very strong. Don’t be deceived by his manner.” She moved aside, making as much room as she could in the cramped interior.

Rakoczy lay on a large pile of cushions set atop four massive chests which contained his native earth. He was dressed in a loose Burgundian houppelande of black sculptured Italian velvet, the standing collar edged in red piping. He lifted one hand in greeting; there was no swelling left in his fingers but the fading bruises turned the skin an acid green patched with brown. When he spoke his voice was soft and sounded unused. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I thought you might come by. I take it there is some reason why we are stopping?”

“The bridge is out,” said Lovell in English. “The repairs are about half-done. We’re told there’s a ford upstream, but—” “But you don’t want to leave the known road,” Rakoc
2
y finished for him. “Very sensible.” He took a long, deep breath as if to cover pain, then went on with unruffled calm. “We will stay the night here, then, and in the morning decide what is best to be done?”

“That’s it,” said Lovell, and glanced over at Xenya, continuing in Russian, “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay in the wagon again, Madame, though I can arrange for you to have food,” he told her. “I don’t think the peasants here would take well to a woman of your station venturing out among them.”

Xenya sighed. “I have veils,” she said wistfully, all the while keeping an anxious eye on her husband. “But I suppose you’re right. It’s wiser not to be seen. If I leave the wagon and the peasants aren’t offended, the drivers would be, and you would have to calm them down again. One disruption was sufficient.” She shook her head at the recollection of the difficulty an evening walk had brought her when they reached Vologda. “But I long to stroll beside the river, watching the light fade.”

“There’ll be time enough for that aboard ship,” said Lovell. “It is only another—”

“Another thirty days,” said Rothger sternly, with a flicker of concern in his eyes as he looked up at Rakoczy. “If there are no more delays.” He had crouched down by the chests on which Rakoczy and the cushions lay.

“It could be less,” said Lovell hopefully. “Henry Percival of the
Katherine Montmorency
came to Moscovy from Novo-Kholmo- gory in thirty-nine days.”

“He was very fortunate,” said Rothger.

“That’s true, but it is also correct to say that we could be fortunate as well,” Lovell insisted. “The
Phoenix
will be waiting for us, whenever we arrive. It cannot sail without Mister Flemming, can iff”

“I suppose not,” said Rakoczy. It was becoming an effort for him to speak, and moving caused an ache so deep he could not conceal a grimace. “Your pardon.”

Xenya and Rothger exchanged a single, swift glance, and Rothger spoke. “The broken rib is still unhealed,” he said to Lovell, as if this were the extent of the damage remaining. He moved toward the door and slid it open. “Come. We can speak outside.”

They were four strides away from the wagon when Lovell said, “Is he getting better? Truly?”

Rothger smiled once. “Yes. In time you will never know it happened. But now he is in . . . unimaginable pain.”

“But surely he
...”
Lovell faltered, then began again. “He has preparations he had given others, syrups and tinctures I have been told take pain away. I had heard he cured one of the Polish priests of putrid lungs.”

“Sadly, he cannot avail himself of those nostrums.” There was something in his eyes that warned Lovell not to pursue the matter.

Ahead of them William Flemming was ordering the wagons into a U-shaped formation, the open end toward the village. He called out to Lovell, “I want that wagon on the east side of the camp, behind my first wagon. All right?” That would put Ra- koczy’s wagon behind the bottom of the U, not quite excluded from the rest, but oddly apart from them. “All right'’”

“If that is what is wanted,” agreed Rothger. “Tell Geza where the wagon is to be.” He went a little further, Lovell trailing behind him. Only when he was satisfied they would not be overheard, he spoke again, in Latin, “My master fears we may still be followed.”

“For what reason?” Lovell answered in that language, his accent—to Rothger’s inward amusement—like none that was ever heard in Imperial Rome. “They must suppose he is dead by now.”

“Possibly,” said Rothger. “But he has remained alive a long time, in large part because he has not denied danger.” He paused. “He is in no condition to fight. He can barely hold a quill to write with. His muscles have just begun to knit, and he cannot yet walk without assistance.”

“Are you telling me you need more protection?” Lovell asked, his concern increasing.

“I am saying we
may
need protection.” Rothger frowned slightly. “There are times I sense it, myself, something behind us.”

Lovell laced his fingers and pressed his palms downward. “I’ll speak to Flemming in the morning. But I don’t think he’ll like it. He doesn’t want to compromise himself with the Rus. If he decides you will bring him trouble, he could order you to travel behind us, rather than with us.”

“That is not acceptable,” said Rothger directly. “Our passage is paid and half this cargo comes through my master. We travel with the cargo as well as the company.”

“Still, Flemming is a cautious man,” warned Lovell.

“We’ll sweeten the proposition with gold. Nine golden angels for his trouble. Tell him. There is more if necessary.” Rothger turned as Geza slapped the reins, directing the wagon to the place Flemming wanted it. “We’ll put the horses on a grazing line tonight,” he called to the driver.

“And have someone watch for bear,” Lovell added. “With so many horses, we could attract them.”

“Truly,” said Rothger, bowed once to Lovell in the Italian manner, and turned toward where the wagons had grouped.

In the long dusk of northern summer the English camp rang with Russian songs and excited laughter. Fragrant steam rose from several cooking fires where piglets broiled on spits and onions soaked in raw berry wines burst their cracking skins. Even those men assigned to patrol the outer camp whistled as they went about their rounds, notched and quarreled crossbows held negligently; they drank the cups of yeasty dark beer they were regularly offered.

In their wagon, Xenya hummed along with the songs she knew, and fought the impulse to burst into tears. How long would it be before she heard these songs again? England was a distant, strange country: who knew what they sang there? She sat facing away from Rakoczy, afraid that even now his keen eyes would detect her distress. Earlier she had urged him to sleep, for it was apparent his pain was worse; but he had said he wanted to listen to the music.

“One day—it will take more time, but one day—I would like to play something for you, Xenya Evgeneivna. One of Lauro’s songs, perhaps.” He had touched her bronze-colored braids, his dark eyes on her honey-colored ones; it took him some time to speak. “I am sorry I brought you to this, Xenya.”

“Never say that,” she had answered him at once. “I am not sorry at all.” But sitting and listening to the music now, she could not avoid a pang of regret. She tried to work up her courage, to ask him about England, but could not.

His voice in the dark was very low. “You could have been safe, Xenya; that is what troubles me.”

She took a chance; she turned and looked at him. “Safe? I would be safe if they forgot about me, and what safety is that?” One of the village women had a low, sinuous voice, and the song she sang was plaintive and insidious, coiling its sad little melody around and around until it fixed in the listeners’ thoughts, stirring memories and awakening ghosts of forsaken loves.
“His kisses were the staff of life for me; I dined on them better than a boyarina on her pheasant and dumplings. ”
As she lamented the death of her faithful lover at the hands of a jealous enchantress, everyone who could hear her was caught up in it, captured by the sweet, mournful dirge.

The singer was in the middle of the last, most heart-wrenching verse when the company of eleven Guards rode into the village, their lances held at the ready, bows strung for use.

As the melody trailed away, the villagers were the first to be alarmed. Most of them drew back, away from the cooking fires, many of them crossing themselves and reciting prayers when they saw the mounted soldiers. They not so much panicked as vanished. Father Sevastyan hastened toward his church, calling for the villagers to follow him to sanctuary; quite a few of them did.

In the silence they had created the leader of the Guards called out, “Where is the foreigner Rakoczy? We are mandated by Czar Feodor Ivanovich to return him to Moscovy at once.”

At first no one spoke, and then there was a sudden babble as many of the English reached for their weapons; they had not understood the Guard, but they knew a threat when they heard it, and they responded to it.

“Wait, wait!” called out Lovell in English, walking toward the Russian troops. “We are foreigners,” he said in Russian. “Bound for Novo-Kholmogory with cargo to be shipped to England. We are English.” He turned slightly so that he could address Flemming in English. “Tell them to put their weapons down, will you? These men will attack if they think you’ve provoked them.”

“I don’t think so,” said Flemming in a genial tone. “Not for that lot.”

“I thought you disliked the idea of defending our foreign friend,” said Lovell, surprised at Flemming’s attitude.

“Oh, I do,” said Flemming. “But the man is injured and these caitiffs are too high-handed. If they want him, they’ll have to walk through us to get him, but not until we’re ready for them.” He folded his arms, waiting for Lovell to translate.

When Lovell had done this, with some softening of Flemming’s remarks, he listened to the Guard’s commands, and relayed them back to Flemming. “He wants you to put down your weapons. All of them.”

Flemming scowled, but said, “All right, you men where the Rus can see you, put your weapons down. The rest of you, stay ready. I don’t like this.” He motioned toward Lovell as he put down his dirk. “Tell them we’re laying down our weapons, and only that.”

Lovell did as he was told, adding, “These are merchants, not soldiers. You can see that for yourself.”

“We have no interest in merchants,” said the Guard leader. “We only want the foreigner. We have this”—he held out the dispatch from Czar Feodor—“as our authority against foreigners.”

In his wagon, Rakoczy was attempting to sit up, but collapsed with the effort. “Never mind,” he panted as dark threads wavered through his sight. “Give me the sword, Xenya. The short one. There. Beside the chest.” He lifted his hand but could not master his trembling. “Bring it to me. Now.” He closed his hand around the hilt but he could not hold it for more than a few heartbeats. “And hide. You must hide. I don’t want them to find you.” He glanced around the wagon. “In the front, under the driver’s box. If you huddle in there, they won’t find you.”

Xenya had turned back to the leather case beside the chests, and she pulled out a Byzantine longsword, hefting it uncertainly. “I am not a mouse, my husband, to hide from such as those.”

“We are English,” said Flemming to the Guards once more, standing beside his translator. “We are carrying goods to my ship, the
Phoenix.
We aren’t doing anything against the Czar. We have a document signed by him and by Boris Godunov giving us the right to trade in Russia. Tell them that, Lovell. And take as long as you can about it. I want to give my men time to notch their crossbows and ready their quarrels where the Rus can’t see.”

Lovell was sweating, but he hoped that the Guards would think it was because of the heat and all the food and drink of the evening. He did as Flemming ordered, adding, “We cannot help you, Guards. If we could—”

“They told us in Vologda and in Nizhkovo that you had a foreigner with you. Let us take him, and you will be left alone. Our dispatch is for him alone, but it tells us to detain him at any cost. If you stand against us, then we must fight you in order to capture the man.” The leader rose in his stirrups. “I will order my men to bring you down.”

“Our Queen will protest this,” said Flemming when Lovell relayed it to him.

“Your Queen will never know. You will vanish. Many people vanish in this wilderness.” He turned to his men and spat out sharp orders.

“What did he say?” asked Flemming, edging toward a large wooden table where trays of abandoned food lay.

“He said to search the wagons and shoot or lance anyone who tries to stop them,” Lovell replied. “They mean to do it.”

“And I mean to stop them,” said Flemming, his voice loud enough to carry to his men. “If the English are prepared to take cover? Then, Lovell, tell them they are outnumbered and we will not allow the wagons to be searched.”

“If that is what you want,” said Lovell with a sigh, and translated this for the Guards. He could see them preparing to make a rush, the tips of their lances rising, their hands tightening on the reins of their rugged Don horses. He had already decided he was going to dive under the nearest wagon.

“So be it,” said the Guard, and signaled his men.

The charge was short but furious, the horses spurred to a bounding gallop down the middle of the wagon U. They succeeded in wounding one man, lancing his shoulder.