The moment the taper gave out its last sputter the men stood, carefully lifted the body from the bed, hoisted it high above their shoulders, and carried the former hetman to his resting place in the fortress.
The procession was solemn, and Katerina made it with dry eyes. Once she closed them to ward off fresh tears, when they placed the body on the high marble table and then covered it with a sable blanket. Here he would rest till spring, when he would be lowered to his final resting place near his wife and Katerina’s mother. Is it the end, can it be possible? she thought wildly. No, never—she had given her word to succeed, and she would. Now more than ever, she couldn’t fail! She wouldn’t allow herself to, not while there was a breath left in her body. She prayed to God and thanked Him as she made her way back to her room for the impulse that had led her to tell her grandfather what she wanted to do before he died. If nothing else, she was thankful for that one small favor.
Back in her bedchamber, she built up the dwindling fire till the logs snapped and crackled, their flames dancing and licking at the sides of the great oven. She sat huddled near it, the plush fur securely wrapped about her. She stared into the fire for hours, until her eyes began to smart from the smoke and the flying minuscule embers.
Now she was alone, more alone than she had ever been in her entire life. She was the last of the Vaschenkos. There would be no one to carry on except her; even if she should marry someday, the children she bore would not carry the name of Vaschenko. In one way it was the end, she told herself, but in another it was a new beginning for all of them. She had to do it for herself now that she was the only one left. And she would survive. The Kat always survived.
Chapter 16
As the days passed, Katerina’s grief lessened a little. She kept herself busy with her training program. The men performed with skill she never thought imaginable in so short a time. It was almost as if they were trying to prove something. But to whom? she questioned. To her or to themselves? Whatever, the strict, structured routine she had laid out for them was finally paying off. There wasn’t one among them whom she would be afraid to have at her side. Even Banyen’s men were now on par with the prisoners. Each time they met for a practice battle, the match was a draw.
Katerina felt unnerved as she watched the men go through the paces Mikhailo laid out for them. Something was bothering her, and she didn’t know what it was. Banyen seemed to be respecting her period of mourning, and not by look or action had he done anything to unnerve her. Kostya was intent only on perfecting his skill. While he looked at her longingly, he made no overt moves in her direction. Were they all biding their time? Were they waiting for something to happen . . . to her? What was it? Her stomach churned as she let her eyes sweep the arena and finally come to rest on the boy named Valerian. No, he was no longer a youth, but a man. A man with cold, hate-filled eyes. If eyes could kill, I would drop on the spot, she told herself as she stared at him. He hated her almost as much as she hated Banyen. He was acting like a wounded wild animal, as her grandfather used to say, which meant he was up to something. She continued to watch him as he, in turn, tracked the men, his eyes circling the room and always coming to rest on the door frame. Surely he wouldn’t be so foolish as to try to escape. He could go nowhere in the freezing cold. Her glance strayed to Banyen, who was leaning nonchalantly against the wall, his eyes on the center of the arena, finally flicking to Valerian. He, too, sensed the young man’s intent. The lynxlike eyes narrowed as she watched him. A vision of a trapped animal in a snare came to her mind when she watched his movements, jerky and uncoordinated. She was jarred from her thoughts as a shout went up from the center of the arena. One of the Mongols’ spears had found its mark in the shoulder of the prisoner named Chedvor. Katerina raced to the man’s side and sucked in her breath at the sight of the spurting blood. Mikhailo was on his knees, trying to stop the flow.
Katerina bent over the injured man and spoke softly. “You’ll live! Another inch and the point of the weapon would be resting in your heart. It was a careless mistake on your part, one you already regret. Your opponent was younger by ten years, leaner and faster; remember that the next time you take to the ring. Never assume, never prejudge. Your wound will be taken care of, and then you’ll return here and work with your horse. A very poor performance on your part,” she said coolly.
The fallen man tightened his lips against the pain, his eyes full of shame. She was right. His opponent was younger, less experienced, and . . . What does it matter? he told himself. He carried the wound; he would make doubly sure it never happened again. Hurt by a damn Mongol, he thought bitterly. If it was the last thing he did, he would get revenge. He lay back while the men carried him on a litter to Mikhailo’s small room, where he would be cared for. A glass of vodka to bolster his strength and he was back in the arena, leading his horse through her paces, his eyes angry and belligerent.
Banyen called Valerian’s name and waited for him to work his way to the front of the line. Katerina frowned when she heard his name called a second and a third time. Suddenly it was quiet; even the horses had stopped snorting and pawing the ground at the sound of Banyen’s harsh voice.
Katerina walked over to the prince, her eyes cold and hard. In her gut she knew he was gone. “If one of you doesn’t speak up within the next few moments, you’ll remain in your quarters for a full ten days. On the count of three someone had better speak and in a clear, loud voice. One, two, three!”
“He left,” Igor stated simply. Too well he remembered the lonely, cold nights in his room, and he had no wish to repeat the experience for even one night, much less several. A man could die in that barracks with no blanket and no food, only water that turned to ice.
“Where did he go?”
“He said he was leaving this damnable fortress, and he said he would take his chances on the outside.”
“Fool!” Katerina spat. “Now, I’ll have to go after him and bring him back. This is your fault, Banyen,” she snarled, “he was your man, you’re responsible for him. I should make you go out in the storm and fetch him back, but then I would only end up going after both of you. When I bring him back, he gets ten lashes and three days in his quarters, understood?”
Banyen nodded. What else could he do? She was right, as usual.
He would have left the moment Chedvor was wounded and all ran to the center of the ring. A thirty-minute head start as of this moment. She needed time to get Whitefire and . . . She met Mikhailo’s gaze and held up her index finger to show she meant the number one stallion. He frowned and tightened his lips, but he left to do her bidding.
When Mikhailo returned and nodded to Katerina, she secured the fur cape and left the arena, the others staring after her. Someone should stop her, Banyen thought, and it should be me, but she surely wouldn’t thank me for interfering in what she calls her business. He motioned for the others to continue with their drilling while Mikhailo took Katerina’s work.
A few moments later, standing in the open doorway, he backed off as a wild thundering shook the thick stone walls. A blur of white raced past him and down the long, endless corridor. It was Katerina on an ivory stallion, her cloak flying out behind her. Never had he seen such speed in an animal. It could only be Whitefire! He gasped. What an exquisite animal! So he too was kept here after all, like the other white stallions he’d seen. The question now was where they were stabled and how he could get to them. He shrugged; all he had to do was wait for her to return . . . if she did . . . and watch where Mikhailo took the horse. After that he could . . . He smiled to himself as he sauntered back into the arena to watch the next match.
* * *
Outside the great fortress, Katerina gave Whitefire his head and let him go. If there was another horse within ten miles, Whitefire would find it. This was what he liked best, the thick, swirling snow that made him and the whiteness one.
With both hands clutching the horse’s thick mane, Katerina felt the great stallion swerve to avoid a thick clump of someth
ing and then hurtle down a steep grade. The snow-robed trees stood sentinel as she let Whitefire take to his stride. She should have brought something to cover her face; already the snow spray the horse kicked up was caking on her face. The force of the cold, freezing air was making it difficult for her to breathe. She crouched lower, burying her head in the horse’s ice-crusted mane.
The stallion moved effortlessly through the large drifts for what seemed like forever to Katerina. He knew where he was going, to the grove of firs; that was where another horse would shelter until its rider could get his bearings. The moment the copse came into sight was when she heard the sound—a horse’s soft whicker, which was pure delight to the numb girl. The cold was having its effect on her now as Whitefire cantered into the darkness the firs afforded. Katerina sat up, her breathing ragged, as she watched the horse look around. A light tug on the mane and he was off, sure-footed as a dancer.
Deftly Whitefire trotted around a huge tree and worked his way through what looked like a narrow tunnel. In another few moments the animal would be out of the grove. Where was that stupid man? She called out, but her voice was harsh and sounded like a croak to her own ears. “Find him, boy, he’s got to be here somewhere. I heard his horse. You can do it, Whitefire,” she crooned. The stallion reared up his head at her words and snorted, his great hooves thumping the ground.
Suddenly Whitefire bolted forward, and Katerina felt her neck snap backward. Recovering, she crouched low and let the stallion have his way. He headed straight for the opening at the end of the aperture and was again in the open. He was going so fast it was impossible for her to see if there was a shape ahead of her or not. The horse swerved to the right, throwing her off balance as he again picked up his long-legged race to catch whatever it was that was eluding him and causing the woman on his back such anguish. Katerina was completely blinded by the spray from the horse’s hooves. She gasped as the animal skirted another evergreen, this one so close she felt the branch brush against her head, knocking off the hood of her cape.
Whitefire snorted and slowed, rearing back on his hind legs. Katerina lifted her head, and there was the sorrel, with Valerian struggling to climb into the saddle. Whitefire brought his front legs down with a thump on Valerian’s shoulder, sending him sprawling into the deep snow.
Katerina shook her head to clear it and slipped from the stallion’s back. Valerian was all right, shaken and fearful but able to stand.
“You’ll ride the stallion and I’ll ride the sorrel. One false move on your part and Whitefire will send you to your death. Understand?” Katerina demanded in a harsh voice. “I warned you that if you tried to leave I would fetch you back; still, you had to try. At best you could have gone another mile and then you could have frozen to death. Look at the sky, you fool, more snow is already on the way. Now get on my horse and make quick work of it.” The moment the man climbed on the stallion, Katerina slapped his flank and yelled, “Go, boy, straight to the stable!” She climbed onto the sorrel and followed the racing steed in front of her.
The moment the fortress came into view Whitefire slowed his breakneck speed and trotted along daintily as he waited for his mistress to catch up.
Katerina slid from the stallion and pounded on the great doors that opened into the underground stable. Whitefire pranced inside, snorting and throwing his head back to show he had done what was expected of him. The long white plume of his tail swished as Mikhailo pulled Valerian from his back. The old Cossack’s eyes were wide and angry at the man’s condition.
Katerina nodded. “There is no way he can live. Place him on a litter and take him to the kitchens; it’s the best we can do for him. Have the men take the litter through the arena so the others can see what happened to him. Perhaps now they’ll believe me. Do it now, Mikhailo,” she said firmly, her voice cold and hard, her amber eyes points of flame. “It was so unnecessary, so needless. He is so young to die, he hasn’t even lived. Men can be such fools,” she spat as she climbed onto Whitefire’s back to lead him to his private stall.
* * *
Banyen stood looking down at the man in the warm kitchen. Valerian’s eyes were glazed and unseeing, his lips purplish, his skin a faint bluish white. He is the next thing to dead, the Mongol thought bitterly. A stupid mistake and one he is paying for with his life.
Banyen looked up at a sound he heard and turned to see Katerina. Her face was unreadable.
“It would be wise if you informed your men that escape is impossible. He’ll be dead shortly. A low price for a life, wouldn’t you say? I warned you in the beginning. His death is to rest on your conscience, not mine.”
“It pleases you, doesn’t it? It pleases you that you were right and now you can walk into the arena and know that the others will look at you and fear you as some . . . paragon who is never wrong,” he said harshly.
“You’re free to have your own thoughts, whatever they may be. I can live with what I’ve done and . . . and have no regrets. I could have left him out there to die, but then, I’m not a man and I couldn’t leave an animal to die if it was in my power to help him. His death is his own doing.”
“A pity he can’t appreciate your words,” Banyen said bitterly.
“Yes, a great shame he didn’t heed my words, the words of a woman who has lived here all her life and only tried to warn him and the others by giving them the benefit of her knowledge. Now he’ll never know the truth. Sometimes an example has to be made for others to learn,” she said expressionlessly as she turned on her heel and left the room.
Valerian struggled for his last breath just before dawn, and Banyen covered his face with a coarse blanket and bowed his head. Another life was gone—would there be others? Three more long months to go through. Who among the others would die?
Rage coursed through him at his inability to do anything to stave off what he considered to be the inevitable. He hated this helpless feeling!
* * *
Valerian’s death did nothing to enhance Katerina in the eyes of the Mongols. It was obvious they blamed her for his death, and it was also obvious that it was Banyen to whom they now looked for direction, totally ignoring any and all orders from Katerina. Mikhailo told her it was a wise person who knew how to retreat. She made no threats against them and bowed to their demands. She wouldn’t admit that the young man’s death had shaken her. She hated the look in the Mongol’s eyes, and she dreaded the indigo scrutiny of Banyen. Most of all, his words haunted her. Was he right? Did she want to be some kind of savior?
The close confines of the fortress were beginning to bother her, and whenever that happened she went to the stallions. Here in the warm, steamy, sweet-smelling stable she could pour out her heart to the animals and forget for a time where and who she was. She owed Whitefire the biggest carrot she could find and . . . and what else did she need, her mind questioned. She shook her rich, coppery curls till they were free of the knot on top of her head and sat down in Whitefire’s stall and waited for the horse to come to her. He nuzzled her head and shoulder gently, showing her he understood she was troubled. Daintily he backed off and looked at her with huge chocolate eyes. His well-shaped head tilted to the side as if he were waiting patiently for her words. When they came, he shook his head and advanced a step and again nuzzled her.
Katerina’s tone was soft, almost heartrending in its simplicity. “What else could I have done? I warned him, I warned all of them, and because I am a woman they ignored me. There is no other answer. The man is dead and they blame me. The prince blames me; he says I’m now happy that I proved myself right in the eyes of the men and that it took the senseless death of Valerian to make this so. How can I take the blame for something that isn’t my fault? We rode out, you and I, and we brought him back; there was nothing else to do. And now he lays next to Grandfather, waiting for the snow to melt for a decent burial. I’ve already done something I swore I wouldn’t do, and I hate myself for it. I compromised myself and didn’t punish the others when they refused to follow m
y orders. The Mongols will listen only to Banyen now. I don’t know if it was the right or wrong decision; I only know that I could not bear to see the look of blame they held in their eyes for me. They all think it’s my fault.” A lone tear dropped to her tightly clenched hand, and she looked at it in surprise. Tears were for children and frail, sickly women. She was neither, she told herself. She was the Kat.
* * *
Gregory marveled at the Cosars’ slim-legged beauty. “Each of you,” he muttered, “is worth his weight in gold, and if I can’t figure out what to do with you, all my dreams will be nothing but clouds drifting in the wind.” His mind raced with the gruesome thoughts of Ivan and the scenes he had witnessed in Moscow.
He squared his strong, muscular shoulders as he stroked one of the white geldings. “You may be a pleasure to look upon, but I would much prefer to look at gold and kopecks,” he said harshly as he left the animal’s pen.
As Gregory walked along the snow-covered road, he noticed that the Terek village was settling down for the night. The full moon was low in the east, casting shadows on the earth, multiplying the Cosars to twice their number. Fury ate at him as he lumbered along, anger at his circumstances, hatred for Ivan and his mental condition. The Czar was obviously insane—a lunatic, as the people said. He feared Ivan would remember how he had tricked him. If he did, he would probably send men after him and his band. He flinched as though from a wound and continued his walk. The Czar would conveniently forget the bargain they had made. Could Ivan even remember the original plans, conceived nearly a year ago, when he was lucid? Gregory recalled there had been a fanatical light to his eyes even then, when he made his proposal. He had been blunt to the point of insult.
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