“But how can such a feat be accomplished?” she questioned in amazement.
“By subterfuge—and more than a goodly share of boldness. If they’ve positioned spies or accomplices inside the Kremlin, then they’ll likely be able to enter secretly with none the wiser.”
“Be careful,” Synnovea pleaded desperately, letting him gather her close against him again. “You haven’t yet given me a child, and if it’s ever meant that we should be parted by death, I’d like some part of you to remain with me.”
Tyrone plied her soft lips with a gentle kiss and then, drawing back, smiled down into eyes brimming with tears. “We’ve had so little time together, my love, I hope we’ll be allowed several decades to spawn many admirable confirmations of our devotion.”
Ladislaus strode from the house, prompting Tyrone to crush a fervent kiss upon his wife’s lips before he, too, crossed the porch and descended the steps. It caused some confusion for both men when they realized they had halted beside the same horse.
“This is my stallion!” Tyrone declared emphatically, gathering the reins. “Your horse was shot, remember?”
“But we made a trade,” Ladislaus tried to argue. “Mine for yours, yours for mine.”
“Yours is dead!” Tyrone stepped between him and the horse and swung up into the saddle, from whence he grinned down upon the man as that one growled in protest. “From now on, Ladislaus, you’re going to have to limit yourself to your own possessions. I have a serious aversion to sharing my treasures, especially with the likes of you.”
Tyrone reined the high-stepping mount about, close enough to allow the animal to flick its tail across the brigand’s face, evoking a loud snort of displeasure from the giant. Accepting his helmet from the grinning Grigori, who urged his own horse alongside, Tyrone settled it on his head. Then he lifted his arm and swept it forward in a command for all to follow. It was the chortling Petrov who led a rather shaggy-looking horse to Ladislaus as his leader muttered sourly after the colonel.
“You forgot, maybe, it was your horse you tell me shoot.” Petrov inclined his shining head toward the animal he had brought near and grinned. “Maybe this beast not so fine as his or the one I shot, but better than walking, I think.”
The foreign regiment rode over the hill and was halfway across the valley before a sudden warning shout rent the silence. The men gaped in sharp surprise as a solid line of mounted, uniformed Hussars, appearing as if from out of nowhere, halted their steeds on the next rise ahead of them. As they watched in paralyzed awe, cannons were hastily rolled to positions on the brow of the hill, interspersing the cavalry unit, while the officer in command slowly raised his sword.
Shouted orders sent a swelling tide of confusion rippling through the foreign ranks, turning their haste into a mad scrambling dash as they sought to bring up the artillery and spread it out in a more impressive line than the one they now faced. Clearly having the larger force, they hoped to counter the threatening attack and roll the foolish ones back upon their heels. Several musket shots rang out from their ranks, and a pair of Hussars toppled to the ground, but in the next instant the Russian cannons began to bark with deafening intensity. Recoiling in large plumes of smoke, they sent leaden balls hurtling through the air to bombard the intruders. The shots landed, eliciting startled shrieks from both man and beast as large geysers of dirt were spewed upward in front of them. When a second barrage was unleashed, it punished them severely for the dead Hussars. A wealthily garbed nobleman shouted at the commander, who, in frustrated rage, snarled out orders in rapid succession to his men. Obeying, those hearties bared their swords and spurred their steeds forward in pursuit of vengeance, just as a cannon lobbed a leaden ball down upon the princely one.
The Hussars seemed to wait on the hill with unswerving patience as their opponents charged toward them. The rival force of mercenaries quickly gained the first upward slope of the knoll, but just as they did, out of the corners of their eyes they caught movements to their left and right. In sudden alarm they glanced askance betwixt the two, and their hearts filled them with fear as they saw other men, dressed in all manner of array, swarming down upon them. The Hussars seemed to come alive as their commander swept his sword forward in a signal to charge. He led his men at a thundering pace, lifting his saber high and rending the air with a warbling wail that raised the hackles of friend and foe alike. The intruders considered their plight forthwith and came swiftly to the determination that it was foolish to stand and fight against such odds. Expeditiously they wheeled their steeds about, intending to flee, but they soon found themselves caught in a box from which they would find no successful escape, for another surge of outlandishly garbed fiends was charging up from the rear.
A pair of darkly cloaked figures crept stealthily through the trees near the Kremlin wall until they saw a wagon carrying fodder for horses moving briskly toward the tower known as the Borovitskaia. The two hastened to reach the path as the cart rumbled past and flitted alongside it until the farmer halted the conveyance at the gate, where he greeted the sentry with the warm cheer of a close friend and laughingly conversed with him, allowing the wraiths to slip inside unseen.
The two continued on, one leading the other as if by rote through the trees. They came to a spot near the edge of the Kremlin hill where they had been told to wait until a quarter stroke of the hour. At that appointed time another cloaked shade, this one noticeably smaller than the two, moved away from the Blagoveshchenskii Sobor and cautiously approached them.
“What are you two about this eventide?” a subdued voice asked from the deep cowl as the slight one neared the two.
A gruff voice issued an answer. “We’ve come a-gaming for that fanciful dish tsars are wont to seek.”
The shorter one dipped his head in acknowledgment and made the expected reply. “And what is that but a royal seat upon the throne?” The three came together, and the smaller one promptly lowered his tone to a whisper. “Your men have been given their instructions?”
The one with the harsh voice gave the information while his companion stood stoically mute. “At the appointed hour, they will create a diversion for us and start fires throughout Moscow, to which the tsar’s soldiers will be dispatched. By then Tsar Mikhail and Patriarch Filaret will have gone into the Blagoveshchenskii Sobor to pray. We’re to join ourselves with the rest of our men and kill the castle guards who have come to stand watch. We will then slay the patriarch and the tsar in the chapel and hold the Kremlin until the rightful tsar takes the throne and kills the boyars who are wont to reject him.”
“Good! I assume your men are waiting inside the Kremlin to help you in this endeavor.”
“All is in readiness, my lord.”
“The other matter is arranged also?”
“What matter is that?”
“Surely you’ve addressed yourselves to the safety of the new tsar and have found a place here in the Kremlin where he can hide until he’s ready to make an appearance, have you not?” The pointed question was met with a tense silence that demonstrated the perplexity of the two. The small man became incensed. Completely infuriated at the dim-witted simplicity of the dullards, he threw back his hood in a vivid display of rage and advanced upon the pair with a snarl contorting his pockmarked face. The back of his short-fingered hand swiped forcefully across the wide chest of the taller one, who stood the closest to him. “You fools! He’s the most integral part of this whole plot! Where is he?”
“Where any rightful pretender should be, Ivan Voronsky,” the taller one finally answered.
Ivan’s mind halted in sudden shock. Though the man had spoken Russian, the words had been accentuated with an English accent, allowing a sharply goading fear to seize the cleric’s mind. He remembered precisely where and when he had last heard it, and that had been weeks ago at the military parade held in the Kremlin.
“Rycroft!”
The tall man approached him, sweeping back the hood of his own cloak. “Aye, Ivan Voronsky, ’tis
Colonel Sir Rycroft, at your service.” Tyrone swept a hand toward his companion as he casually introduced him. “And my good man, Captain Grigori Tverskoy, to aid you in all your endeavors. Your Polish friends were found out ere they reached Moscow, and I fear your intended tsar was blown to bits by the careless aim of our artillerymen. A tragedy, to be sure. I’m sure Tsar Mikhail would have preferred to see him beheaded alongside you.”
Ivan snatched forth a dagger and raised it high, intending to sink it into the chest of that stalwart one who addressed him with scorn, but his wrist was seized in a steely grasp and wrenched around to a painful height behind his back, startling a cry from him as an agonizing jolt of pain wended its way from wrist to shoulder. Almost casually, Tyrone plucked the knife from Ivan’s hand, eliciting another highly indignant screech from the grimacing lips. At the sound, there quickly arose from the area of the Palace of Facets a confused burble of voices which soon was overridden by shouted commands that compelled the guards to seek the source of the noise.
Ivan’s heart began to hammer as he realized he wasn’t going to escape from the trap the two had laid for him. All the money the invaders had put aside for him suddenly seemed a paltry sum in view of the price that would be exacted from him for treason against the tsar.
“I’ve got gold! I’ll give you all of it if you’ll just let me go!” Ivan pleaded frantically over his shoulder. He had to be gone before the palace guards reached them or it would be too late to make good his escape! “It’s more than both of you will ever make in your lifetime! Please! You must let me go!”
“What portion does Princess Anna receive from what you promise to us? She is your accomplice, is she not?” Tyrone queried as he leaned over the cleric’s shoulder.
“Princess Anna? Why, she was merely a pawn I used in my attempt to enlist the aid of wealthy boyars to the cause.”
Grigori clasped his fingers in the cleric’s lank hair and lifted that one’s head to peer leeringly into his sharply honed features. “Have Russian boyars also promised you gold to make it worth your while?”
“No! No! But I tell you there is enough already to fill your coffers to the brim! Those fools wouldn’t hear of a Pole claiming the throne. Indeed, they seemed content to let a simple puppet rule the land.”
“What fool would seriously consider being subjugated beneath the rule of a Polish tsar?” Tyrone chided. “As for the gold, I think I can speak for both of us. You see, we’re quite content with what we already have and are grateful that our heads will remain firmly attached to our shoulders while yours will not.”
Ivan Voronsky’s demeanor crumpled, and he began to sob bitterly, as if all the woes of the world were crushing down upon him. His loud weeping turned to wails of anguish and frustration, until it seemed as if he had no more strength to stand. Weakly he collapsed against the man who held him in an unrelenting vise. Above his muffled crying, running footfalls could be heard rapidly approaching.
“What goes on here?” an officer demanded, unsheathing his sword as he raced through the shadows toward the three. Over his shoulder, he called for reinforcements before slowing his pace to make a more cautious approach. Closely perusing the cloaked figures, he came to a halt and questioned sharply, “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you, ’twould seem,” Tyrone replied solemnly, lifting his head to meet Major Nekrasov’s startled stare.
“Colonel Rycroft! I thought you were gone!”
“I was,” Tyrone answered simply. Then he dipped his head to indicate the grieving cleric, whom he held firmly ensnared by one hand. “We came across a force of Polish mercenaries who had been hired to help this man assassinate the tsar and the patriarch. We camped on the outskirts of the city so none would know of our presence, just in case there were more spies afoot than we had been led to believe. We came here searching for the one whom the mercenaries said they were to meet. The Poles couldn’t lay a name to the traitor, so we had to find him ourselves. I believe you’ve met the man when you escorted the Lady Synnovea to Moscow. He is your prisoner now.”
Nikolai peered down at the glowering cleric, who bared his teeth and hissed like a small, poisonous viper caught by the tail. Breathing in some of the foul stench emitted by his harsh breathing, the major became convinced anon that the man’s present behavior was a truer manifestation of his character than he had thus far exhibited.
Nikolai gestured for the men who had answered his summons to come forth and take the prisoner away to the tower known as Konstantin Yelena. With stoic reserve, the major watched as they grappled with the snarling, struggling man who had taken on the ferocity of a rabid wolf. Finally they managed to subdue him with two lengths of chain and hauled the maddened beast away at the end of his fetters.
After observing their departure until they were out of sight, Nikolai turned almost reluctantly to face his rival. “Colonel, there is a matter of grave concern of which you need to be made aware. Shortly after you left the city, the Lady Synnovea was kidnapped by a band of men who closely matched the descriptions of Ladislaus and his cohorts Countess Andreyevna said your wife’s disappearance wasn’t discovered until the next morning, after the guards you had hired to watch her were found gagged and bound in the garden. By then it was too late to scour the countryside with any hope of halting their flight. I’m sorry.”
“Ease your mind, Major,” Tyrone replied. “At present, my wife is safely ensconced in my camp outside the city.”
Nikolai was momentarily taken aback by surprise. “Considering how adamant Ladislaus has been to have Her Ladyship for himself, I was sure no one would ever see her again. How did you manage to get her back?”
“ ’Twas my extreme good fortune to be in the right area at the right time.” A slight smile etched Tyrone’s lips. “You may be relieved to hear that Ladislaus has decided to repent of his lawless ways and has come to ask full pardon from the tsar. At present, he’s also in my camp, sporting a wound that’s more impressive than serious. Nevertheless, he’s happy showing off his new son. Without the help that he and his men gave us, we’d never have been able to capture the mercenaries.”
“Ladislaus here? In your camp? Can that really be true?”
A lopsided grin made an appearance as Tyrone gazed back at him. The major only reflected his own disbelief when the thief had made his proposal. “I know it sounds farfetched, Major, but Grigori can confirm what I say.”
“I was reluctant to believe it myself,” the captain offered, “but it seems that Ladislaus dotes upon the sister of our scout. Now that he’s a father, he feels he must make a better way for his offspring than he had growing up. Ladislaus was tutored by some of the best, but his father—a Polish prince—refused to lawfully claim him as his son. Ladislaus has asked the girl to marry him, and if he’s pardoned, he’ll then avail himself of the opportunity to seek an honest profession.”
Major Nekrasov chortled at the wonder of such miracles. Then he cleared his throat behind a hand as he prepared to speak of an entirely different matter. “Colonel Rycroft, I’m not sure if you know that General Vanderhout insisted upon taking the rest of your regiment out, along with troops from other regiments, on the premise of evaluating their performance….”
Tyrone braced himself as he and Grigori exchanged worried glances. “What is it, Major?”
“Well, as far as I’ve been able to ascertain, General Vanderhout had no idea how fierce Cossacks can be when they’re set awry…”
“Go on, Major,” Tyrone prodded impatiently as that one paused to look at him. “What has happened?”
“There was a complete rout, Colonel. Your men wanted to stay and fight, but General Vanderhout didn’t want to take the chance that they’d anger the Cossacks more than they had been already. He ordered your men back to Moscow and followed swiftly with the others, making a valiant attempt to outrun the Cossacks, who had threatened to set fire to his heels if he dallied overlong in their territory. Once the general passed through the outer gates of Mosco
w, the Cossacks entertained themselves with the debris your commander had left behind in his haste, not only muskets but several cannons which had been requested by him. The Cossacks built large campfires, hooted and cavorted while they harassed Muscovites morning and night with their newfound artillery. No real damage was done, at least none that I’m aware, but ’twas nearly three days before the Cossacks finally ceased their chicanery and took themselves off to seek other diversions. Since then, the general has been in hiding. I believe he’s ashamed—and possibly afraid—to show his face.”
Grigori burst into laughter and made no effort to curb his amusement as Major Nekrasov glanced at him obliquely. It was a full moment before Tyrone was able to speak without following his second-in-command’s example.
“All appears to have gone well in our absence,” he commented drolly.
Thoroughly bemused, Nikolai contemplated the Englishman, who seemed to have trouble hiding a smile. “You appear to be taking the news exceptionally well, Colonel. I rather assumed that you and the general were good friends, what with Vanderhout being a foreigner and your commander and all….”