Synnovea leaned in trembling relief against Captain Nekrasov as the strength ebbed from her shaking limbs. For a moment she yielded herself to the comforting embrace of the officer’s arm, hardly realizing the full extent of his admiration as his gaze dipped briefly into her torn bodice. Gradually the Russian officer released his constricted breath and regained control of his racing senses. The faint brush of his lips against her hair seemed accidental as he continued to lend her support, but when she caught the sound of Ali’s weak, plaintive plea, Synnovea gave him no further heed.
“Me lamb,” the servant mewled as the driver stopped bathing her brow long enough to lift her upright. “Come here an’ let me see for meself that no harm has come ta ye.”
Synnovea ran to her maid and submitted herself to the woman’s inspection while she made her own assessments of the elder’s condition. A massive black bruise now marred the wrinkled chin, and even in the meager light, Ali’s pallor was easily discernible.
The exertion proved too much for the tiny maid. Mewling a fretful moan, she collapsed into the supporting arms of the coachman, concluding the worst as she considered her mistress’s tattered condition. “Oh, me lamb! Me lamb! What did that foul beastie do ta ye?”
Synnovea soothed the elder’s fears as she sank to her knees beside her. “I’ve suffered a few minor scratches and bruises, Ali, nothing more, thanks to the tsar’s officer who came to my rescue.”
Ali softly sobbed in relief. “Thank the blessed heavens ye’ve been spared. An’ thank Cap’n Nekrasov for comin’ ta yer aid.”
Synnovea squeezed the small hand reassuringly. “It was another officer who saved me, Ali. He led his men in an attack against the brigands. We’re safe now.”
“If only I could’ve seen the event meself,” the maid murmured weakly. “I’d have enjoyed seein’ that big lummox gettin’ his comeuppance.” Barely had she said that than the aging eyelids sagged closed. Heaving a weary sigh, Ali drifted off.
Synnovea met the gaze of her gray-haired driver as she pushed herself to her feet. “You’d better carry Ali to the coach now, Stenka. She can rest there until we’re under way again.” In caring concern Synnovea continued to fret as she walked beside them. “Gently, now. Ali has had the worst of the fray.”
“Jozef and I will take care of her, mistress. Have no fear,” Stenka replied kindly and then coaxed, “You’d better see to yourself now, mistress, considering the bad fright you’ve had.”
“I will, Stenka,” Synnovea murmured and then noticed the bandage that had been wrapped around the footman’s head. Laying a hand upon his sleeve, she claimed his attention. “Your wound, Jozef—is it serious?”
Jozef shook his head and grinned. “No, my lady, but there’s a hole in my ear large enough to put a cork through.”
“Some lady will find that convenient,” Stenka remarked with a teasing twinkle in his eyes. “She’ll lead him about by the ear instead of the nose.”
Synnovea patted the footman’s arm in a conciliatory manner and managed a smile. “You’d better be wary, Jozef. In Moscow there are plenty of pretty maids who’ll take advantage and lead you astray.”
“I shall watch for them with great eagerness, my lady,” Jozef promised her with a chortle.
Satisfied that Ali was in capable hands, Synnovea lent her attention to their immediate departure. Nikolai’s men had suffered only minor wounds and were hurriedly repacking the carriage. The detachment of soldiers who had come to their rescue had given chase to the band of thieves, and no member of either force could now be seen. A short distance from the coach, the ground was littered with the dead, and from what she could ascertain in the swiftly gathering darkness, the highwaymen were the only ones who had suffered loss, for she could see no Russian uniform among the dead. Anxious to be gone before the raiders returned to reclaim their booty, Synnovea faced Captain Nekrasov with a query. “Shouldn’t we leave here before we’re attacked again?”
Nikolai Nekrasov was in full agreement and urged his men to double their efforts. “We must make haste to take the countess to a place of safety. Finish loading whatever is left and let us be off before we find ourselves once again beset by the brigands.”
Synnovea realized she hadn’t seen the cleric since her return and glanced around in some bewilderment. “But where is Ivan Voronsky?”
Captain Nekrasov raised his able arm to point toward a shadowed area beyond a clump of tall trees in the distance. Frowning in bemusement, Synnovea stared in the direction he indicated until a vague, pale blur became distinguishable as the leaf-shrouded form of a small, naked man. “They stole away his clothes, Countess, and every spare piece of clothing we had with us as well. We’ve nothing to share with him.”
Synnovea debated the alternatives. Ivan had been so critical of her European gowns, she didn’t think he’d accept such frivolous finery even out of necessity. Ruefully she advised, “ ’Twould seem there’s no choice but to search for clothing among the fallen.”
“I’ve already assigned that task to one of my men, my lady,” Nikolai informed her. “Though the selection may not meet with the cleric’s approval, there should be enough to clothe him.”
Synnovea silently demurred at the idea of undressing the dead and quickly excused herself. “I’ll wait in the coach with Ali.”
Though night quickly overtook them, Synnovea and her small party of attendants were soon on the road again. The pace was more cautious now as the moon cast ominous shadows far ahead of them. Each bend in the road was carefully approached. Still, the air was cooler and far better tolerated than the oppressive heat of the day.
Once again, Synnovea had to endure the presence of Ivan Voronsky, but this time he wasn’t at all inclined to argue after being so thoroughly humiliated. When he talked at all, he mumbled angry insinuations against Captain Nekrasov and his men, convinced that they had been motivated by spite to find the most obnoxious, most malodorous garments available. The outlandishly large breeches and leather doublet reeked of old sweat and garlic, a combination which made it imperative for the diligent application of a scented handkerchief.
Synnovea refrained from placating Ivan’s complaints, preferring instead to keep the filtering cloth in place so she wouldn’t have to tolerate the stench. She was also appreciative of the darkness that hid whatever gory stains bedecked the garb, for she preferred complete ignorance of the type of death wound the previous owner had suffered.
They were well on their way again before the realization dawned on Synnovea that she had made no effort to send out her escort in search of the officer who had ridden after her. The possibility that he was lying wounded or dead in the forest made her own lack of concern seem shamefully devoid of compassion, especially since he had risked his life to save her. In seeking her own security, she had dismissed any consideration for the safety and comfort of the officer. Utterly scandalized by her disregard for such a valiant soldier, she knew she’d find little relief from the fretting anxiety that now gnawed at her.
2
The golden moon nestled like a newborn babe within the cradling arms of towering pines, firs, and larches. Gradually the orb weaned itself from its earthly breast and began to climb upward in a wide arc across the night sky. Humbling a myriad of stars with its brilliance, the lustrous sphere condescendingly cast its light upon the earth, setting aglow the rustling leaves of the oaks and birches that lined the road through the village, creating scintillating flashes of light as soft breezes bestirred their branches.
Grayed wooden cottages, adorned with painted carvings and fretworked gables, were nestled close behind the trees. Small sheds, gathered like ragged skirts behind the humble dwellings, were joined together with board fences, providing a windbreak against the fierce winds which could savage the land in winter months.
The stately carriage, with its complement of unkempt guards, rumbled past the houses, drawing young and old alike to the windows. The grandeur of the coach and the frazzled appearance of its escort were no
ticeable even in the gloom. The small company of soldiers, some of whom were bruised and bloody, aroused speculations as to the likely cause, but no one was more aware of their shabby condition than Captain Nekrasov. At his command, the detachment rode through the town with a practiced cadence that lent some semblance of dignity otherwise lacking in the procession. The entourage passed a single-domed wooden church in stoic silence, yet when Stenka halted the conveyance in front of a sizable inn and a bathhouse was espied nearby, deep sighs of relief were heard from the grime-coated guards as they swung down from their mounts.
Captain Nekrasov entered the inn to make the necessary arrangements for his charge. His bandaged arm and bloody tunic drew curious stares, yet one did not casually delay an officer of the tsar single-mindedly intent upon his duties. Synnovea awaited the captain’s return in the privacy of her coach, unwilling to extend the innkeeper’s bemusement by the presence of two bruised and badly disheveled women.
Ivan Voronsky hastened off to beg for more appropriate garb from those in the church. As he skittered along the thoroughfare, he kept to the shadows and shielded his face against recognition, however remote the possibility of that occurrence.
The innkeeper was proud of his new bathhouse and boasted of its clever features as he directed his male guests around the facilities. The guided tour allowed Synnovea the privacy she needed to help Ali upstairs to their room. By now, the servant’s head was throbbing so painfully that even the slightest movement made her queasy. She had taken on a pallor that was sharply accentuated by the purplish swelling on her pointed chin. Synnovea gratefully accepted the tray of food that the innkeeper’s wife brought up to them, but Ali could endure only a few morsels. Solicitously Synnovea filled a basin for the tiny maid, helped her bathe and don a fresh nightgown. Finally, with an agonized groan, Ali sank onto the bed and drifted off to sleep, thoroughly spent.
Synnovea desired more than a mere token washing for herself and settled her mind on having nothing less than a thorough cleansing and a soothing soak for her own sorely bruised body. It became evident, however, that the soldiers had much the same notion in mind after depositing their gear upstairs. In passing her door they made as much noise as a stampeding herd of young colts, jostling and elbowing each other aside in a light-hearted endeavor to be among the first to reach the bathhouse. Listening to their cavorting descent, Synnovea had to wonder how they had managed to find so much energy after such a grueling day.
The delay was hardly objectionable to Synnovea. Eventually it would allow her as much leisured time in the facility as she desired, a privilege reserved expressly for the last in line. As she waited for the soldiers’ return, she collected toiletries and nightclothes in a small satchel. Painstakingly she brushed out the debris that had become entangled in her long hair and left the black, silky length unbound as she stripped away her torn clothes. After treating the scratches on her arms, she gathered a voluminous robe around her slender body in preparation of her descent.
The officer who had rushed to her defense came to mind, and she began to pace restlessly about, stricken by her conscience. His face was nothing more than a dark void in her memory, yet she recalled her own blended feelings of awe when, at every turn of the hand, he had seemed to hover behind them like a relentless bird of prey watching for an opportunity to bring down his quarry. She hoped fervently that he was alive and that news of his safety would soon reach her. Only then could she forgive herself.
The soldiers began to drift back to their rooms in varying numbers. Much subdued by their baths, they meandered slowly past her door with only an occasional murmur exchanged between them. Their muted, cheerless voices now clearly bespoke of their weariness.
Synnovea was anxious for them to retire, yet in her growing impatience, it seemed that three times as many came back than those who had left. Her frustration deepened when Ivan sharply commanded a way to be made for him as he passed the soldiers in his descent of the stairs. Answering their exaggerated revulsion to his foul-smelling clothing, he snidely announced that he intended to wash away any residue of filth that remained from their putrid offerings.
Synnovea was inclined to think that this new delay was caused by nothing more than Ivan’s unwillingness to associate with men of low rank, especially common soldiers. Obviously he considered them far removed from his self-exalted personage, for in her presence he had openly disdained them as crude, ignorant men. Had he been able to dictate the priority of events, he might have insisted on being allowed to finish his bath before they were permitted on the premises. Of course, if he had tried such a thing, the soldiers would have laughed him to scorn.
The inn grew still and hushed after Ivan’s return to the small, private cubicle that he had elected to take, allowing Synnovea to finally consider it safe to go down. Outside the inn, a cool breeze rustled through the tall firs that formed a protective fortress beyond the bathhouse, bringing to her nostrils the fresh, pungent fragrance of their swaying boughs. The burbling of a swiftly flowing stream melded with other soothing night sounds, while high above the treetops, the brilliant moon shone down from its lofty realm, holding back the darkness with a wondrous glow that clearly defined the path to the low-roofed structure.
The door creaked in the hushed stillness as Synnovea pushed it slowly open and stepped within. At the far end of the room, a fire flickered in a large hearth, illumining the shadowed interior with a shifting amber glow. A dim lantern offered a wan light from the rafter where it hung suspended by a pulley rope. Its glow lent eerie life to the swirling mists rolling upward from the stygian surface of the pool. The vapors twined aimlessly through the massive beams buttressing the ceiling as if probing for a way of escape and, in their failure, merged into a thickening, swelling haze that shrouded the interior.
Water, shunted through tin flumes from the stream outside, flowed into a huge cauldron, which hunkered like some enormous beast on squat legs over a hearth of its own. A steady fire licked upward around its swollen belly, lending a blush to the curling vapors and the tenebrous gloom. Steaming water trickled cheerily over its funnelled lip into the main bathing pool, on the opposite side of which the overflow dribbled into a shaft that returned the water to the rivulet.
Synnovea paused at the portal and carefully scanned the interior lest she find herself in error about being alone. The shifting flames cast dancing shadows into the mists. Beyond that, nothing stirred. The only sounds came from the crackling fire and the trickling water. In the spacious hearth, smaller kettles of water hung over a fire, and upon a nearby table, pitchers and basins of water were readily available for an initial scrubbing with soap. Wooden tubs had also been provided for a more leisurely soak in a warm bath.
On a bench near the pool, a man’s robe had been left, and Synnovea made a mental note to inform Captain Nekrasov on the morningtide that the garment was there, on the chance that he or one of his men had left it behind. Since Ivan’s garments had been stolen by the thieves, it seemed highly unlikely that it belonged to him.
Synnovea dropped the satchel onto a nearby stool, too tired and bruised to think of anything beyond a bath and a refreshing dip in the pool. She prepared the former herself until a wooden tub brimmed with steaming liquid. From a small vial she had brought, she sprinkled droplets of scented oils over the surface and laid out a bar of fragrant soap and a large towel. She ran slender fingers through her hair to remove any lingering snarls, coiled the length into a heavy rope, and wound it on top of her head, where she secured the bulk with ornate combs. The topknot loosened a bit, allowing softly curling tendrils to plummet downward onto her brow and neck, but for the most part, the dark mass was held ensnared.
Freeing the ties at her waist, she sent the robe slithering downward with a shrug of her shoulders until she caught it with a swirling motion of her arm and flung it aside. As the garment settled in a billowing cloud on a nearby bench, she paused in sudden incertitude and tilted her head aslant, wondering at the soft, breathless sighing sound the
silk had made, much like the slow expelling of a deep breath.
Nothing more was heard beyond the melding murmurs of a crackling fire and trickling water, allowing Synnovea to banish her doubts. Her nerves had been tested far beyond acceptable limits for her to give credence this evening to her own lurid imagination.
Lifting a foot upon the rim of the wooden tub, Synnovea inspected the dark bruises above her knee where Ladislaus had cruelly clasped her thigh. Another bluish mark at her waist caught her eye, and she cupped a breast within her palm, pressing the fullness upward to examine the dark bruise more carefully. During their frantic flight through the woods, she had suffered much pain and trauma, for the rogue’s arm had clutched her so tightly she had feared her ribs would crack.
She dearly hoped the officer had delivered a suitable recompense for the brigand’s crimes, especially after Ladislaus had boasted that none of the tsar’s soldiers could best him. She was exceedingly glad he had been proven wrong. Indeed, it suited her mood to envision that crude highwayman trussed up like a goose, but an intruding worry soon furrowed her brow, motivating her to repeat a silent petition for the safety of the officer.