Darker Jewels (58 page)

From the grazing line where Rakoczy had sent him, Rothger watched the charge begin, and strove with Geza to keep all the horses from bolting. They had two others to assist them, but with more than fifty horses, it was taxing and dangerous work.

Lovell had barely rolled into the protective cover of the wagon when he heard the wounded man scream, but then there were other screams, starded screams that came from the Guards as the first of the crossbow quarrels found their marks. One of the horses went down with thrashing hooves that overset a cooking pot; her rider was pinned beneath her, shouting in fear. Another one of the Guards dropped from the saddle, blood welling from his mouth and ears. A third Guard had taken a quarrel high on his leg where it joined the hip. He howled and grabbed the quarrel, howling more loudly as he touched it. The leader of the Guard shouted for them to turn.

But now four of Flemming’s men were at the open end of the U, firing another round of quarrels.

The leader’s horse went down, the quarrel deep in his neck. The leader shouted to his men to scatter and use their shashkas instead of their lances. “Cut! Them! Down!”

Six men were still mounted, and their leader had abandoned his stricken horse, bringing only his long, curved shashka to defend himself. The Guards wheeled about and broke through the wagons, scattering to the outside of the U, intending to drive the English into the center.

Two of the crossbowmen broke and ran for the trees, unwilling to fight mounted men with swords. The other two fired at the most opportune targets, one taking a Guard high in the chest and flinging him from the saddle.

“This is terrible,” whispered Flemming to Lovell as he crawled under the wagon with him. “We’ll have to kill all of them, or Heaven knows what these devils will do to the villagers.” He clicked his tongue. “We surely cannot permit them to take Ra- koczy. No telling what they’d do to him, and he’s been through enough.”

“I suspect you’re right,” said Lovell, his love of adventure suddenly deserting him; at that moment he longed for the quiet and solitude of Brasenose College so desperately that he bit his lip. “Do you think the villagers will help us, after this?”

“They’re savages, these Rus,” Flemming announced. “They’re worse than those painted, feathered folk in the New World, or those dervishes in Turkey.” He wriggled to draw a long dagger with a fishhook tip from its scabbard. “In case,” he explained.

“I see,” said Lovell, aghast at the thought that Flemming might use it on him, or himself.

“I wish I had my pistols, but they’re in the wagon. God’s Teeth, I could use them now.” Flemming pointed out to the nearest of the mounted Guards and mimed firing at him.

The leader of the Guards ran along the outside of the wagons, his shashka up and ready. He heard another of his men fall and he cursed. As he passed each wagon, he cut through the heavy canvas rear flap and glanced inside. Only once was he offered any resistance and that man he killed in a single thrust of his Russian saber.

By the time he reached the wagon at the end of the U, he knew that he was down to three men, and impossible as it seemed, he realized he might lose the encounter. His outrage increased as he thought of himself defeated by a handful of English sailors and a group of merchants! It was unthinkable. It was unbearable. He ran to the rear wagon, and noticed that instead of heavy canvas at the back there was wood, like the rest of the wagon, and a small door. He rushed forward and pounded on the door with the hilt of his shashka, demanding the door be opened. When there was no response, he kicked it in, calling on the saints to aid him. His face was flushed, for he sensed that triumph was finally at hand. He cried out as the wood gave way.

He faced a woman holding a long, straight Byzantine sword; behind her a black-clad man lay on a makeshift couch of chests and cushions. He was certain he had found his man. “Rakoczy,” he said, satisfaction coming over him at last.

“You will not,” said the woman, her strange, light-blue sarafan gathered and tied so that she could move freely. She swung the sword toward him. “Out! You will get out or I will kill you.”

“Xenya,” the man in black protested weakly.

She ignored him, advancing toward the Guard, the sword held unsteadily but with clear determination. “Leave,” she said purposefully, without a trace of fear; there was no hesitation in her.

The Guard chuckled once, and swung his shashka; she batted at it with the flat of the longsword, as he hoped she would. It was what anyone would do who knew nothing of swordplay. He brought his blade around in an arc and swung it up so that it caught her under the left arm, slicing deep up into her chest. He shouted victory as her blood erupted in huge, steady pulsations, spraying the Guard, the walls, everything.

“NO.” Rakoczy had seen it about to happen, and strove to gather what little strength he had to protea her or fight back. He forced his hand to close on the hilt of the short sword, and with a will that overrode the relentless pain that clawed and tore his wounds, he levered himself onto one elbow, and with the other arm he flung the short sword like a dagger with the very limits of his fragile energy an instant before Xenya toppled and fell across him.

The short sword took the Guard straight and true at the base of the ribs, cleaving through his body to his spine. He stood for a moment, an expression of surprise on his face, and then he tottered, falling out the door, to land splayed, the short sword still quivering.

As Rakoczy fell back, he pulled Xenya more closely to him, as if he could stanch her blood and bring life back to her. The last thought Rakoczy had, before he surrendered to agony and darkness, was that that wound would have been as fatal to him as it was to the Guard.

The last of the soldiers were out of the saddle and their horses were turned loose by the time Lovell found the carnage in Ra- koczy’s wagon. He called at once for Rothger, and the two of them stood together in mute horror.

Finally Rothger spoke. “You make the arrangements for the Guard. I will tend to my master and his wife. If I need assistance, Geza will help me.”

Lovell swallowed hard and offered no protest. He bent to pull the short sword from the Guard’s body, tasting bile as he did. Then he took the body by the feet and dragged him away.

As the English finished burying the Guards with their own dead, Rothger offered a small ruby to Father Sevastyan. “To ornament your ikon of the Virgin, in her memory. Say the Masses for her, and see that no one despoils her grave,” he ordered as he watched Geza carry Xenya’s body through the church door and toward the ikonostasis.

“But surely... surely it would be better if she were buried with her husband’s family, or with her own,” the old priest protested, wary of having such a grave at his church. “As his wife—”

“My master is an exile, and her father and mother are dead,” said Rothger simply. “There is no place he can bring her. Be merciful, Father.” He made one last attempt. “Let her lie in Russian earth, Father Sevastyan, for she is Rus.”

His eyes were troubled but Father Sevastyan took the ruby. “All right. We will bury her with the others of the village, and mark the place with a cross. We will pray for her soul.” He crossed himself. “And for his.”

“That’s a kindness,” said Rothger, who had seen the blood matting Rakoczy’s black houppelande and realized how much of it was his master’s; he was grateful that Rakoczy was unconscious and would not learn of this until later, when it would not rend his heart as it would now.

Father Sevastyan glanced toward his ikonostasis; Geza had laid Xenya’s body down before it, and was kneeling now to pray for her. He nodded once. “You had better go.”

“Yes.” said Rothger, and signaled to Geza before he walked away toward the English wagons.

Text of a letter from Boris Feodorovich Godunov to Istvan Ba- thory, King of Poland, written in Polish, sent with the escort of the returning Polish mission to Moscovy.

To the august and puissant leader of the Poles, the most exalted Transylvanian Istvan Bathory, the respectful greetings of Boris Feodorovich Godunov, guardian of foreign concerns for Czar Feodor Ivanovich, Grand Prince and Czar of all the Russias.

This accompanies your Jesuits, and brings you my greetings as well as my good-will. Because of the high regard in which
/
hold Your Majesty,
/
will take this opportunity to inform you of certain events you may not otherwise learn of events that are in your best interests to know.

As
you must be aware, Father Pogner has been requested to remain in Moscovy to answer questions regarding his activities in association with certain traitorous nobles. Once he has given satisfactory information, he will be permitted to leave Moscovy, and you have my assurance that he will travel with appropriate escort so that any attempts against him by the remaining forces of the perfidious nobles may be thwarted. It would be unfortunate if he were made the object of their vengeance.

The apparent leader of the traitors has sought the mercy of the Church, and the Metropolitan has declared that the penitence of this noble is sincere, which removes him from the judgment of the Court to the judgment of the Metropolitan. The noble has renounced the world and declared his abhorrence for what he has done. Itvish I could inform you that the man will answer for all he has wrought in this world; he and all of us will answer at the throne of God.

It has been learned that all implications of illegal and immoral acts that were made against your countryman Ferenc Rakoczy, Hrabia Saint-Germain, are false, as I have always known they were. His reputation has been cleared and his name will be honored in the Russian Court. Any stigma that may linger will be punished by branding. The severe punishment Rakoczy suffered was wholly the result of the schemes of the traitors, and the Court will issue a formal apology for his injuries as soon as we locate him. However, I must report that I cannot inform you where Rakoczy is at this time. He left Mos- covy with a company of English merchants bound for Novo- Khobnogoty and the English ship
Phoenix,
which sails for London. I have not received word that the ship has departed, nor do I know if he left with it. I have learned that an illegal order sent Guards after Rakoczy to arrest him as part of the plot of the traitors, but the Guards have not returned to their station at Spaso-Kamenny and remain unaccounted for. If they detained Rakoczy, there is no record of it, for guards and Rakoczy have vanished. I regret deeply that I cannot tell you what has become of Rakoczy. His wife, as well, has disappeared, which causes me deep personal distress, for I agreed to guarantee her safely and fortune and this would appear not to be possible as long as her whereabouts is unknown. I pray that when wefind Rakoczy, we find Xenya Evgeneivna as well.

I urge you to reconsider your plan to press the Polish borders eastward at this time. You have claims in the region, but we have them as well, and it would mean long battles and much ruin of cities and crops. With the Ottomites coming into Europe, would not your armies be better employed against the forces of Islam than against fellow Christians? Is it not more reasonable to have the land in question in the hands of the Rus than the Ottomites? Let me ask you to think of this before you take up the sword against us again.

The selection of wines from France and Hungary you have

been gracious enough to send to us through the good offices of the merchant Zygmunt Dzemy are greatly appreciated by Czar Feodor and all those who are privileged to dine with him. We have long enjoyed tokay in the Court, but many of us had never tasted the Bull’s Blood. It is strong, as you warned, but hearty, and many of the nobles who were permitted to drink it spoke highly of it. I would be grateful if you could tell me how the Polish wine merchants so often contrive to have the best drink.

The Court of the Czar will always welcome the embassy of the King of Poland. You need not fear to send your representatives to us at any time. I believe it is wisest to have such ministers at hand, for in difficult times these officers make it possible for rulers to understand one another. Send your new embassy, I urge you, and I will select four men of education and integrity to come to you, as well, in the interests of the Czar and the Rus.

May God send you good counsel, prosperity, and wisdom, King Istvan, and may he show us all the way of brotherhood and charity. May you increase in virtue and prudence as Poland increases in strength. May God spare you from famine and plague and war. And may your good angel ever guide your thoughts and the destiny of your kingdom.

By the hand of Boris Feodorovich Godunov Guardian to Czar Feodor Ivanovich September 11, in the Roman Year 1585, at the Kremlin in Moscovy

Epilogue

Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens at Greengages in England, written in Latin to Sanct’ Germain at Ghent.

To my dearest and oldest and most treasured friend, Ragoczy Sanct’ Germain Franciscus, my fondest greetings;

You did not have to leave, you know. I would have been delighted to have you remain here for years. I can understand why this bucolic life might bore you after a time, but I had no reason to assume you were filled with ennui; I would rather call it melancholy. If traveling to the Lowlands will end that, then I wish you good fortune and the speed of one of your forgotten gods. But if you are seeking only a place to hide, then I warn you there is a good chance I will come after you.

Your Russian horses are thriving, but I must tell you that they are not much admired by the English, who prefer heavier, bigger-shouldered horses than these. I may cross them with some of my Italian horses if that meets with your approval. If I can keep the color, I think the Italians might have a taste for them. I still find it hard to believe that you used these magnificent animals as cart horses.

Benedict Lovell is coming to visit me next month. Yes, I know he is in danger to become one of our blood, but I have told him of the risks and he is willing to take his chances. Iam not certain he believes me, or truly understands what could become of him, but if it is his decision, I will not cavil for I know he is aware that those of our blood are not as other persons are, and about that he is convinced. He has said that he knew there was something beyond ordinary human strength in your recovery from the knouting you received. His description of your condition still makes me shudder. To have had your muscles tattered by the knout, and to tear them afresh. What on earth possessed you.