“Yer pardon, Yer Eminence.” The address was greatly exaggerated as Ali yielded to her unmeasured distrust of the man. “ ’Tis a simple fact that I’ve not laid me poor eyes on a real saint in some years now, though there be some what seek ta convince folks o’ their piety. Wolves in sheep’s clothin’, I’ll warrant, but that’s neither here nor there, seein’ as how ye’re so fine and saintly yerself.”
The veins in Ivan’s temples became darkly distended as his beady eyes pierced the servant. His stare was so menacing that he seemed on the verge of concocting some strange incantation to make the maidservant vanish into thin air. If he meant to frighten Ali, then in that quest he failed miserably. The fact that Ali had come to Russia with Count Zenkov’s bride some twenty-odd years ago and, since that time, had been treated with kindly deference, which a lord might bestow upon a favored servant, had instilled within the old woman an unshakable confidence in herself and in those whom she loyally served.
“You dare question my authority?” Ivan demanded sharply. “I am of the church!”
“O’ the church?” Ali repeated in an inquisitive tone. “There be churches far an’ wide, sir. Which be the one what sanctioned ye?”
His thin lips twisted in a repugnant sneer. “You wouldn’t know the order, old woman. It was founded a great distance from here.”
It wasn’t the first time that Ivan Voronsky had skirted around his affiliations and ordination, but his evasive answers only heightened Ali’s curiosity. “An’ the direction, sir? Which way would it be? Up or down?”
For a moment Ivan seemed ready to explode. “Were I to hold out some hope that you’d have knowledge of the province from whence I came, old woman, I might deem an answer worthy of being uttered, but I see no reason to discuss such matters with an old dullard of a servant.”
Ali squawked and flapped her thin arms in high-flying indignation as she twitched on the seat. Indeed, she seemed ready to catapult herself with claws bared upon the man.
Synnovea laid a lightly restraining hand upon her servant’s arm to forestall such a possibility. Nevertheless, the two combatants glared at each other as if tempted to duel to the death, leaving her bereft of any hope that a truce could be established between them. On the outside chance that their ire could be diminished by some slight degree, Synnovea turned a plaintive appeal to the pinch-faced man. “When our tempers have been sorely tested by the horrible conditions that we’ve had to endure these past days, ’tis understandable that we are wont to quarrel among ourselves, but I plead with you both to desist of this bickering. ’Twill only extend the ordeal.”
Had Ivan been of a gentler, more kindly or manly bent, he might have given pause to Synnovea’s plea, for her softly cajoling expression was most engaging. He may have admired the translucent radiance of the large, thickly fringed eyes that slanted slightly upward beneath delicately winged brows. Those mesmerizing orbs were a curious blend of shades: variegated shards of jade flaring outward from pupils and darkening to a warm, clear brown. As a man, he might also have appreciated the fair skin presently glowing with a moist, reddish sheen or even savored her delicate features. Most assuredly, had he been cast from the same mold as others of his gender, he might have been held much in awe by her stunning beauty, but Ivan Voronsky was not like most men. He was more of a mind to think that feminine pulchritude was a finely devised tool of a darker realm, primarily invented for the purpose of diverting extraordinary men like himself from a path toward exalted greatness.
“You err if you think your benefactress won’t hear of this, Countess. You’ve allowed your maid to insult me, and I shall be most specific in telling Princess Anna of your toleration for your hireling’s impertinence.”
Synnovea made her own conjectures as to Ivan’s origins as his hissing whisper filled the confines of the coach. “Tell her what you will, sir,” she invited stiltedly, refusing to be intimidated. “And should I be of such a mind, I might also caution His Majesty about those who yet hold out some hope of a Polish pretender or another false Dmitri gracing the throne. I’m sure such a hero as the Patriarch Filaret Nikitich would find your sympathies misplaced, considering his recent release from a Polish prison.”
Ivan’s small, dark eyes shot sparks as he recognized the havoc she could create in his life. “Misplaced sympathies? Why, Countess, I’ve never heard of anything so absurd. However did you manage to concoct such a ludicrous notion?”
“Was I mistaken?” Surprised by her own trembling disquiet, Synnovea struggled to convey an aplomb that was, at best, strained. “Forgive me, sir, but with all of your chatter about the possibility of a direct descendant of the late Tsar Ivan Vasilievich being alive, I couldn’t help but recall two previous occasions when the Poles tried to place a man upon the throne by claiming he was the late Tsar Ivan’s own son come back to life. How many times must a false Dmitri be revived to vie for the tsardom when everyone knows his father killed him in a fit of temper?”
Ivan detested being challenged by a woman, particularly one who had acquired just enough knowledge of history and the events of the world to be dangerous. It was even more galling to be forced to assuage her suspicions. “You do me a grave disservice, Countess. What I spoke of was no more than speculations derived from reports that I had heard some months ago. Believe me, my lady, I hold Tsar Mikhail in the highest esteem. Why, I wouldn’t be here if the Princess Anna didn’t trust me implicitly.” He managed a stiff smile for Synnovea’s benefit. “Despite your doubts, Countess, I hope to prove myself a worthy escort, certainly one of higher merit than His Majesty’s guards. They are, after all, no more than common men incapable of entertaining any aspirations beyond their own selfish desires.”
“And what of you, sir?” Synnovea inquired with a touch of skepticism. In her mind the cleric fell far short of the gentlemanly standards to which the officer who led the entourage adhered. Throughout his career, Captain Nekrasov had been praised for his unswerving valor and gallant manners. Tsar Mikhail couldn’t have sent a more dedicated soldier to serve as her protector. “Have you truly vaulted well beyond that moat which poses a hindrance to mortal man and founded your feet upon the lofty elements of sainthood? Forgive me, sir, but I remember as a child being cautioned by a kindly priest not to think of myself as some magisterial gift to mankind, but, with humbleness of mind, to consider my frail form to be temporal and with a fervent zeal to look toward a higher source for the wisdom and perfection which I am obviously lacking.”
“What have we here? A learned scholar?” Ivan chortled, failing badly in his attempt at humor. If anything, his tone communicated an underlying hint of malice. He was a man who had set himself to the task of influencing the misguided and had little patience with anyone who overlooked his potential or questioned his importance or ideas. “Imagine such wisdom ascribed to so fair a maid. What is to become of those ancient scribes who, for their enlightenment, have cleaved to the weighty tomes of bygone eras?”
Synnovea sensed the man was chiding her for voicing a logic he considered worthless. Apparently he had his own schemes for the universe, and far be it that any should try to dissuade him from his purpose. Yet she was not above trying. “When a person has a fault deeply rooted within his reasoning, if he continues to nurture that defect, though he may study the works of a thousand philosophers, he shall remain no wiser than before.”
Ivan’s thin lips twitched with growing irritation as he accepted her reasoning as a personal affront to himself. “And, of course, you know such a man.”
Synnovea stiltedly directed her gaze out of the window, knowing full well what he thought. Considering the cleric’s irascibility, it seemed advisable for her to retreat into silence and endure his company without further comment on any subject. She only wasted her breath trying to reason with the man.
The four-in-hand swept past a thick stand of lofty firs edging the road and, in its wake, left widely spreading boughs swaying vigorously. The sweating, foam-flecked steeds strained to pull the weighty
coach up yet another incline, and though the animals were nearly spent from the harsh extremes and the unrelenting pace, the driver’s whip gave them no reprieve. It continued to flick out with fiery urgency, forcing them to expend whatever strength they still possessed in a quest to reach the next station before nightfall.
The soldiers valiantly kept pace, yet even those well-seasoned stalwarts, with their faces and tunics darkened by the grime of the road, were beginning to show signs of deep fatigue. No doubt each of them anticipated a respite offered by a night’s lodging in the village up ahead. The seemingly endless trek, the miserable conditions, the countless hours spent in the saddle or enduring the spine-jarring jolts of the carriage, had all coalesced into a diabolical torment, one which seemed particularly bent on sapping the last shred of spirit and vitality from each of them. It was disheartening to think that there was still another grueling day of travel left before they would come in sight of Moscow.
The coach lurched heavily as the team raced around another sharp bend, and once again Synnovea braced back into the plush cushions to keep from being launched into the lap of her maid. Heavy fir branches snapped back suddenly against the conveyance, momentarily startling the passengers, but in the very next instant a more terrifying sound intruded. The exploding bark of gunfire muffled the din of loudly crashing branches and thundering hooves, wrenching frightened gasps from the three and bringing them upright in their seats.
“We’re being attacked!” Ivan exclaimed in high-pitched panic.
Synnovea went cold with dread as another deafening volley reverberated in diminishing waves through the forest. The barrage ebbed to a more tolerable level. Then a shot cracked from the rear of the coach and was promptly answered by a more distant report that ended abruptly in the footman’s shriek of pain. As his scream faded, the driver sawed on the reins, bringing the steeds to a jolting halt. A heartbeat later, the door was snatched open and the occupants found themselves gaping at the unwavering bore of a huge flintlock pistol.
“Out!”
The rumbling command wrenched surprised starts from the three as a giant of a man leaned inward, enhancing the threat of his massive weapon. His slanted gray eyes flicked from one to the other until they came to rest upon Synnovea. Half masked by a long, drooping mustache, the brigand’s mouth slowly twisted into a leer.
“Eh, now, what a pretty pigeon we caught for ourselves.”
Synnovea could imagine what the presence of this miscreant meant and she was absolutely terrified. It was difficult to determine the origin of the brigand, for his countenance was as fierce as any she had ever seen. His head was bald except for a long thatch of tan hair tied with a thin leather cord near the scalp and left to hang free over one ear. His faded, sky-blue military coat might have once graced a Polish officer of wide girth, but it now hung open to accommodate the broad chest of its present owner. Perhaps for the same purpose, the sleeves had been stripped away, leaving the bulging arms bare. A dingy yellow sash encircled the brigand’s thick waist, securing a pair of boldly striped, wide-legged pantaloons, the bottoms of which had been stuffed into the slouched tops of a pair of boots frivolously adorned with silver buckles.
Synnovea lifted her chin in an attempt to subdue its trembling and, with more spirit than she had deemed herself capable of, inquired sharply, “What’s the meaning of this outrage? What do you want from us?”
“Treasures,” the rogue answered with a deep chortle. Lifting his powerful shoulders briefly, he enlarged upon his reply as he ogled her. “One kind or another. It make no difference.”
Ivan craned his neck from his dour little collar as he eyed the weapon that threatened them. Anxious about his prospects for survival, he settled on the premise that if he informed this brash intruder of his close association with people of power, the fellow would be reluctant to do him harm. Perhaps the oaf would even see some advantage in ransoming him unharmed. Surely the Princess Anna would be willing to pay a sizable sum for his safe return. Or perhaps her cousin Tsar Mikhail could be persuaded to offer a minute part of his wealth to guarantee the outlaws’ good comportment.
“I urge you, sir, to take heed that you do not set awry the disposition of the tsar by doing harm to those he favors.” Ivan clasped a stubby-fingered hand to his own bony chest, managing to achieve a more dignified mien than he had been able to demonstrate since their forced halt. “I am Ivan Voronsky, and I’m here for the purpose of escorting the Countess Zenkovna to Moscow….” The hulking giant’s cocky grin never wavered, and Ivan’s apprehensions intensified as he realized he had failed to impress the brute. In rising panic, he screeched the last words out in a frantic rush. “By order of the tsar!”
The thief began to guffaw in deepening mirth, utterly destroying the cleric’s expectations. When the miscreant finally sobered enough to speak, he poked a long finger into the darkly garbed chest of the other, making that one wince sharply. “What you mean, you come as escort? You too skinny to fight Petrov. You make a jest, eh? You grow some, then maybe you fight.”
Ivan’s pinched features quivered with ill-suppressed emotions. A confused blend of fear, fury, and humiliation rendered him momentarily incapable of speech and action. Yet when the pistol beckoned him out, he hastily complied amid the sporadic chuckles of the oaf, who stepped back several paces to allow him room to alight. Upon stumbling to the ground, the cleric froze in sudden awe. Everywhere his gaze flitted he could see mounted men, dressed in all manner of array, surrounding the coach and its escort of soldiers. Each bore an assortment of weapons clutched in hand, tucked in sashes, or crisscrossed over their chests. They looked to be a murderous lot, and he could only wonder how he’d fare as their captive.
At the rear of the conveyance, the footman clasped a bloodstained handkerchief over his ear as he, too, cautiously eyed the villains. His still-smoking musket lay in the dust some distance behind the rear wheel where it had fallen after his wounding. Another armed bandit sat on the scrawny back of a mottled gray steed, from whence he covetously eyed the servant’s red livery over the sights of a cocked pistol. A similar threat was carried home to Captain Nekrasov and his men by a vast number of highwaymen. It was widely presumed by the hostages that any attempt to resist would be tantamount to inviting complete annihilation.
In freshening apprehension, Ivan Voronsky began to quake as Petrov sauntered near, for it seemed the towering hulk would commit mayhem upon his person, but in passing him, the brigand only smirked in amusement and leaned into the coach. Seizing the black valise the cleric had guarded so zealously during the journey, Petrov turned with a chortle and emptied the contents into the dust at his feet.
Ivan came alive with a cry of alarm and bolted forward, sweeping his arms about in anxious haste as he sought to catch his belongings before his money pouch could be discovered. He was promptly brushed aside by Petrov, whose well-practiced ear had detected an all-too-familiar clink of coins. Plucking the purse from the tangled mound of clothes, the thief tossed it into the air and guffawed in glee over its significant weight.
“Give me that!” Ivan demanded, jostling the larger man in his quest to seize the small pouch. “It belongs to the church!” His voice rose to a piercing shriek. “I was only carrying tithes to the Moscow church! You mustn’t steal from the church!”
“Aha! The crow now flap his wings like big hawk, eh!” Petrov glanced toward the two women, who were watching from the doorway, and grinned at Synnovea. “Little man protect his gold more than you, pretty lady.”
Petrov hunkered down on his haunches in search of more wealth, shredding the dark vestments that lay in the dust to glean whatever they might hold. His hunt proved futile, and with a roar of rage he soared to his feet, extracting a frightened yelp from Ivan as he seized him. “You tell Petrov where you hide more gold, little bird. Maybe then he won’t squash you.”
Though the sight of Ivan’s hoarded wealth had repulsed Synnovea, it went against her grain to sit calmly by and allow him to be abused without offeri
ng some defense, as frail as it promised to be. “Let him go,” she enjoined from the coach. “The satchel is all that belongs to him. Everything else you see is mine. Now let him go, I beg you!”
Petrov complied, and Ivan sagged to his knees in enormous relief as the huge man stalked back to the coach. Lending the countess his full attention, he grinned broadly while he stretched forth a hand to her. Reluctantly Synnovea settled trembling fingers within the enormous paw and alighted as courageously as her shaking limbs would allow. When she came into view of the outlaws, wild hoots and exaggerated cries of admiration rose to a deafening intensity as the thieves expressed their delight with her uncommon beauty. The thunderous din heightened Synnovea’s trepidation, and she glanced around in deepening dismay as a dozen or more stalwarts rushed forward, shouldering each other roughly aside in their quest to be among the first to reach her, already anticipating the succulent sweetmeat they would soon devour. Everywhere her frantic gaze darted she saw a deepening wall of the lecherous leers and assaulting perusals. Their lusting eyes left no curve untouched, no piece of garment intact. Eagerly they pressed in close around her, suffocating her with their hot, panting breaths and rudely pawing hands.