Fate & Fortune

by Michaels, Fern

  “If it’s the last thing I do before I die, I swear to you my sword will taste Ivan’s blood.”

  The Khan motioned to Banyen to sit beside him on a tufted sheepskin pillow. “Sit with me, here under this canopy, so we can talk. The sun will go down soon, and the day will get cooler. It’s a pleasant hour of the day to talk and have some wine. Besides, my young prince, I want to know more about your reasons for wanting Ivan’s blood. When you first came to my camp you told me your family was slaughtered and all your father’s territories taken away. I heard of the attack, but the details have never been told to me. Do you wish to speak about it now? I never urged you before because, as I just told you, I’m a man who selects his moments wisely, Banyen. You will see how it serves you and how much sweeter the fruits of victory. Now, angry one, tell me what happened to your people,” the Khan urged Banyen.

  “Why should you be interested?” Banyen questioned sarcastically. “You have my hide tied to a bargain, and I’m without a piece of gold. At one time I could have bought anything, including your so-called army. I don’t understand your interest, since my story can be of no value to you.”

  “Allow me to be the judge. I’m interested for many reasons. I always make a point of being informed of all battles and attacks, it teaches me the ways of the enemy. As for my second reason, if you haven’t realized it by now, then you shall. All Mongols are brothers, and when one Mongol gets killed it is a brother that is killed. I wish to retaliate for that injustice. Banyen, if you can put your anger aside for a moment, I’m interested in the attack on Kazan. I would imagine you were quite young when it happened—can you remember?”

  Before Afstar could say another word, Banyen raged, “Can I remember? A stupid question! If you saw your mother and father slaughtered, would you forget it? Would you, even though you were only six years old? Spared because some distant Russian forefather let you be born with a different color of eyes than the others,” he roared at the Khan.

  “No, I wouldn’t. Calm yourself, Banyen, tell me how it happened. Perhaps if you talk about it, it will ease the pain a bit. I’m not saying you should forget, or that you could. I’m only suggesting that if you talk about it, it might help.”

  “It won’t help, as I have no wish to discuss it now. End it, Afstar.”

  “Your trouble lies within you. You are too full of hate and vengeance to think clearly. After a winter in the mountains with the girl, your mind might clear enough for you to realize that emotions must be put aside, for one to think and plan attacks with care,” the Khan instructed the wrath-filled prince.

  “Speaking of the mountains and my niece, have you mulled over which of the young men you’ll take with you? I suggest you choose healthy young men, if there are any, for the winter is harsh in the Carpathians. If the snow starts while you’re on your way, half the journey will be made through knee-deep snow.”

  “When do we leave?” Banyen asked coldly.

  The Khan shrugged. “A day or two, perhaps three. My niece needs to regain her strength before she starts out on that arduous trek through the Urals. Patience, Banyen.”

  Soft gray twilight cast the high-domed yurts into an endless expanse of bubbles. To Banyen’s narrowed eyes, it was home, the only home he had known since the loss of his family and estates. He hated the squalor, the undisciplined men in their slovenly clothing, and their rough, crude manners. How was he to make a marching army from such degradation? Perhaps if morale were higher, or some sort of incentive offered, he might have a better chance of succeeding. His chest constricted at what he imagined would happen with his first charge into battle. The men would drop like flies or run with fear. They weren’t soldiers, they were inexperienced youngsters. He had to try—what else could he do? He needed the Khan and the Khan’s men. He shrugged; there was no point in torturing himself with thoughts such as these. His eyes traveled to the Khan’s yurt and the sleeping girl. He frowned. She reminded him of someone. While he might agree to the Khan’s terms, that was all he’d agree to. Once in the mountains, he would do as he damn well pleased. Never would he take orders from a woman, even a beautiful woman. He would conquer her first.

  A vision of her crouched low, her teeth bared, the knife thrust in front of her, made him draw in his breath. A formidable enemy, no doubt about that, but he was a man and she a mere woman. He allowed his mind to drift, envisioning her in a silk gown, her hair loose upon her bare shoulders. Of course, he smirked, her eyes would be filled with desire and her mouth would tremble for the feel of his lips. Perhaps this time the Khan was right, and patience was what was needed. He could be as patient as the next man, but when his patience was at an end, it would end.

  Chapter 7

  The dreary fall season took its toll on the Czar’s patience as he grew bored with the endless array of dinners and affairs. Nothing pleased him, not even his personally selected harem of beauties, who tried to bewitch and tantalize him. “I need something different to entertain me, I grow weary with dinners and women,” he wailed. “Does anyone have a new idea for their Czar, something to excite me?” he questioned his gathered nobles.

  The room was silent. Suddenly a quivering voice at the rear of the room was heard: “My Czar, the Oprichniks have taken many traitors as prisoners. Perhaps we could have them entertain you, under your supervision, of course.”

  “Yes, a splendid idea. I will have them perform for me and my subjects. Who is it that speaks? I order him to step forward.”

  A young nobleman slowly made his way through the crowd toward Ivan. Trying to control his trembling limbs, he bowed graciously before the Czar. “I am the person you seek, Czar Ivan. I pray I have not offended you with my outburst,” he said meekly.

  “On the contrary, young man, stand before me and let me look at you. You’re close to the age of my eldest son, and I would have been proud of him had he made such a joyful suggestion.” Ivan beamed. “On Saturday next we will have a mass execution at the Place of the Skulls in Red Square. I personally appoint you to announce this news to the people of Moscow. I want Red Square filled to capacity with my subjects. It is my wish that every citizen attend; if they refuse, they will join the traitors at the chopping block. Be off with you and prepare your announcements, for you have but a week. If the square is filled to my satisfaction, when we return to the palace I will have you dubbed a lord.”

  “Thank you, my Czar,” the young man mumbled, making a low, sweeping bow. “I will not fail you, you have my word.”

  The days following the Czar’s announcement were busy ones in the Kremlin. Ivan was everywhere, joyfully directing the workmen who labored day and night erecting intricate instruments of torture and execution: large pans for frying the victims, huge caldrons of water suspended over faggots, ropes that would cut a body in two when tightened, bear cages, iron claws, pincers, and the gallows.

  The day of the executions arrived. When Ivan rode into the square, accompanied by his guards, he was appalled by the lack of spectators, and immediately called for his guards to produce the young nobleman. When the young man appeared before Ivan, fearing for his life, the Czar spoke. “You were instructed to fill this square to capacity and I can count the number of people on one hand. Where is everyone?” he roared.

  “My Czar, I did as you directed and made known this day to every citizen. They were told to attend. However, if I may, my Czar—I have heard talk that the citizenry is fearful of your wrath. Forgive me, Czar Ivan.”

  “If what you say is true, then we must set the matter straight. Come, you will ride with me through the city while I tell the people they have naught to fear.”

  As they rode Ivan shouted to the populace in a loud ringing voice, “Good people, come! There is nothing to fear, no harm will touch you, I promise! My word as Czar Ivan!”

  Assured by the Czar’s words, the people straggled into Red Square.

  As the citizenry began to move about, the Czar rose majestically and spoke: “All traitors to death!”

  A t
hunderous roar of approval rose from the crowd, with cries of “Long live the Czar!” The young nobleman smiled contentedly.

  Three hundred prisoners, their chains clanking behind them, were led into the square, the majority of them half dead from previous torturing. To win his people over, Ivan dramatically showed mercy to several of the traitors by freeing them, and granted a few others the right to exile.

  For the most-hated enemies of the state, Ivan saved the greatest and most extreme torture. One boyar was hung by his feet and cut into pieces. A trusted treasurer was placed in iced water and then in boiling water repeatedly, until his skin peeled off him like an eel, while Ivan laughed in delight.

  As the executions continued throughout the day, Ivan’s eyes rolled in ecstasy over the pain and blood of the traitors. At sundown Ivan and his son rode to the home of a dead nobleman, where he ordered the man’s widow tortured until she told where their family treasure was hidden. Throughout the long night Ivan and his son rode to the houses of the executed nobles and seized their treasure. Wearied from the ride, Ivan then ordered eighty widows of executed nobles drowned.

  For days thereafter, to add to the disgrace of the traitors, Ivan allowed their mutilated bodies to lie rotting in the square. Hungry dogs feasted on their flesh as passing citizens spat contemptuously on them. Finally the Czar ordered his men to rid the square of the foul-smelling bodies.

  In a remorseful mood, feeling sorrow for the souls of the traitors, Ivan spent hours in church, praying for their souls, and donated large sums of money to the holy institution. Tiring of prayers, he then went to Alexandrov, where he took to his bed pleading exhaustion.

  His days of penance over, Ivan returned in splendor to Moscow, dressed in his finest regal attire. Parading into Red Square with his guards forming columns on either side of him, he rode his stallion up the steps of Terem Palace, directly into the dining hall. Clapping his hands, he shouted, “Tonight I want a feast commemorating my return. Let the cooks prepare the finest in delicacies for my guests. Invite by my special request beggars, thieves, whores, and murderers. Bring them into the palace and have the servants dress them in finery. Inform the boyars they must give their finest clothing to these people, by my order. I want them dressed and seated an hour after dark, at which time we will dine.” His announcement finished, Ivan rode his horse down the marble corridors to his bedchamber and dismounted, leaving the horse in the hallway.

  That evening Ivan dined among the dregs of Moscow society. “For entertainment tonight I have a surprise for all my noble guests. I have summoned the wives of the boyars to dance for us. Ladies and gentlemen, please direct your attention to the middle of the hall,” he cackled, pointing a bony finger in front of him.

  Dressed in beautiful gauzy material in an array of colors, the boyars’ wives minced their way around the hall, trying to cover their bodies with their hands and arms. The ladies, aware that the gauze hid nothing, only accentuating their breasts and thighs, danced with their eyes downcast as the male guests leered at them. Thoughts of tasting their delicious femininity was more than most of them could bear. They shouted obscene remarks to the women as they drank and ate like the lowlife they were. Ivan delighted in every minute of it. “These are my people!” he shouted.

  With a wave of his hand he dismissed the dancing women, to groans of dismay. “Gentlemen, noblemen, please, I have more to dazzle your eyes. Allow me to present my witches and magicians to mystify you. They will perform feats never before seen by man. Bring on the witches and magicians,” he commanded.

  At the height of the magic show, his personal messenger darted into the hall. “My Czar, I beg your pardon, but I’ve come a long way and have news for you.”

  “You dare intrude during the performance!” Ivan bellowed. “Your news had better be worthy of this interruption. What is it? Tell me at once!”

  The messenger rushed forward. “When I stopped in Kiev I was told to deliver this to you, my Czar.”

  Ivan’s eyes scanned the parchment. A loud rancorous laugh echoed above the din as Ivan doubled over in mirth. “I can’t believe that God is this good to me. This announcement is the prize that makes my evening complete. Ladies and nobles,” he said, grinning sadistically, “let it be known to one and all that Yuri Zhuk, my noble emissary, is dead.” He crushed the parchment as convulsions of laughter rocked him. “My emissary was found in a clump of bushes outside Volin, with his tongue and fingers missing. Delightful!” He drooled, his drunken eyes rolling in his twisted face. “Enough, enough of this, back to the witches. Where are my witches? Continue, I order you to continue!” he roared. “Tomorrow I must . . . no, not tomorrow, but soon, I must send for Halya and tell her this delightful news.”

  On Ivan’s orders, everyone drank, feasted, and fornicated throughout the night. Czar Ivan was once again delighting in the affairs of state.

  Chapter 8

  Katerina woke once, shortly after midnight. She stirred restlessly and settled her bruised body more comfortably on the plush carpet. Within seconds she was asleep again, this time deeply and totally, a dark-haired man stalking her through snow. She moaned while she dreamed, as she slipped and fell time and again in her struggles to get away from the man bent on capturing her. As always, the moment his hands were within reach of her she woke, her body drenched with perspiration, her eyes wild and haunted, a scream on her lips. She lay back, exhausted, as tears welled in the luminous amber eyes and flowed down her satiny cheeks. One day soon it would be her turn. When that day came she would sleep again, as when she was a child, peacefully and happily. Slowly, as if they had a will of their own, the thick heavy lashes lowered, and she was again asleep, her cheek pressed into the richness of the carpet.

  The Khan stood over his sleeping niece, willing her to wake. As if she sensed his presence, the doe eyes opened and she stared up at him, frowning, trying to remember where she was. Recognition of her uncle and the warm closeness of the yurt reminded her, and she struggled to her feet.

  “If you have a change of clothing for me I would be grateful, and I would also like a bath if it’s at all possible.”

  The Khan nodded as he tossed her a vivid striped cotton shirt. “The yurt next to this one has bathwater and a light breakfast waiting. When you’ve finished, join me and Prince Banyen by the open fire in the center of the compound.”

  The slim girl worked at her shoulders, trying to loosen the tension and the tightness that had settled over her in sleep. She rubbed at her arms and thighs, trying unsuccessfully to ease the stiffness in her muscles. Perhaps the bath will help, she told herself as she left the tent in search of food and the luxury of warm water.

  Not wanting to waste time, she removed her filthy clothing and slid down into the oil-scented water with a thick wedge of goat cheese and a chunk of bread. This was indeed a wonder. Now where did the Khan get scented oil? She suppressed a wicked smile at what she imagined was his favorite pastime.

  She ate the cheese ferociously and chewed at the bread as if she hadn’t eaten in days. Later she would gorge herself at the noon meal. For now, she needed her wits about her for the coming hours she would spend with the Khan and Prince Banyen. Just the thought of his name and she trembled. The gold-tinted eyes darkened to newly minted copper as she reached for a length of toweling. She stepped from the round tub onto a deerskin. The moment her bare foot touched the fur she stumbled, and would have fallen if she hadn’t reached out to grasp the rim of the tub. Don’t think about him, she cautioned herself as she pulled on the trousers Stepan had outgrown. The brilliant shirt was tight and felt confining. Her breasts strained against the thin fabric as she tucked the end into the band of the trousers. She longed for a mirror to see the condition of her hair. Sighing, she gathered it into a knot and tied it back with a loose strand of hair from the side of her head. What did she care what she looked like? She was clean, and that was all that mattered.

  When Katerina left the bathing yurt she shaded her eyes against the brilliant sun. She l
ooked around to get her bearings and was surprised to see people moving about, their colorful garb dazzling in the shimmering light. They moved slowly, intent on what they were about. Children ran and played, laughing boisterously as they scampered over piled twigs and strewn rock piles. She was surprised when she received no more than a passing glance from the playful children and busy women. She frowned. Where were the men? Katerina squinted against the glare of the sun and saw that at the very outer perimeter of the compound men were drilling with weapons. Horses whickered softly as men climbed onto their backs to ready themselves for a charge. She was puzzled. If the Khan’s wealth was as great as she had been led to believe, why was he bothering with this ragtag group of soldiers? Money could buy him a fit and ready army. He was up to something. And whatever it was, it had something to do with her, she knew it just as sure as she knew Prince Banyen had . . .

  Skirting the playful children, Katerina picked her way among the yurts, avoiding the chattering women who were busy washing and cooking outdoors. She nodded slightly to the prince and touched her uncle fondly on the arm to show she was ready for whatever it was he had planned. Banyen’s eyes raked her as she skipped along to keep up with his long-legged stride. She said nothing, knowing the Khan preferred that she remain quiet. So—he was taking her to the stockade to show her the prisoners. She was shocked but schooled her face to reveal nothing. Never had she seen or smelled such . . . such . . . Words failed her.

  “Breathe through your mouth,” Banyen suggested.

  The stockade ran the entire width of the encampment. It consisted of poles hewn from the nearby forest. The poles, seven feet tall, were crisscrossed by rough-hewn planks. Overhead, animal hides were laced tightly across the tops of the structure to ward off the hot, scorching sun and biting wind, and the snows of winter. Instinctively she knew that in the summer the bodies of the prisoners baked, burned, shriveled, and stank. In the winter they would shake with the cold and turn blue from frostbite. The lucky ones would survive; the rest would freeze and die.