By the time we arrived in Kiev much of this trade had ceased to exist. Far to the east there was restlessness among the wild tribes of the steppes. The Petchenegs, sometimes called Cumans, had swept across the trade route to Baghdad, and they had almost cut Kiev off from Constantinople by driving their hordes into the lands north of the Black Sea.
Kiev was, in many ways, a more enlightened city than Paris, for Paris lay under the domination of an autocratic Church that was only beginning to broaden its intellectual base, and Kiev, utterly pagan, but drawing upon both Christian and Moslem cultures, was a town where all ideas were of interest.
There was little agriculture about the city. Nomadic herdsmen, dark-eyed and savage fellows with Mongolian features, stalked the streets in tight, well-armed groups, talking to no one. There were tall, blond Vikings from the north, a fierce, piratical people, many of whom had become excellent traders.
“Sometime,” I told Suzanne, “I shall write about the relationship between piracy and trade. The one always seems to precede the other, and the most successful pirates have become traders, perhaps on the idea that it is easier to defraud a man than kill him.
“Trade is much superior to piracy. You can rob and kill a man but once, but you can cheat him again and again.”
“You are cynical,” Suzanne said. “They only sell them what they want.”
“If people were sold only what they wanted, there would be little trade, my lady. The soul of business is to inspire people to buy that which they neither want nor need.
“Take our Lucca, for example. Fur makes his neck break out in a rash; yet at each fair in Flanders he wore fur-trimmed robes with such style, such elegance, that many were prevailed upon by their wives to buy cloaks in which they looked neither stylish nor elegant, and which their own woolens far outclassed in many respects.”
“Mathurin, has the Hansgraf said when we would go south?”
“Soon. He is negotiating with the boatmen to travel with them, but I fear it will come to nothing. They have their own cargo to carry, and we have too many people.”
“But if we go overland we must pass through the country of the Petchenegs!”
“The boatmen probably hope we will be attacked. Our goods will be in competition to theirs, for they will be carrying furs also, and gold.”
Rising, I belted on my sword and donned a cloak, one of our woolens, purchased in Flanders. “The decision will be made today.”
Trade was no longer of interest to me. What I wished for now was Constantinople, a meeting with Safia’s friend, and then to do what could be done to free my father—if he still lived.
We had met many travelers, and each I prodded with questions about Alamut and the Old Man of the Mountains as well as his Valley of the Assassins. Little it was they could tell beyond what I already knew. They all agreed that escape from the Valley was impossible, to enter it equally impossible.
We gathered about our fire in the woods outside Kiev, an oddly assorted group. Sarzeau was there, his wounds mended now, but oddly surly. The Hansgraf was flanked by Lucca and Johannes, the latter pale and thin after his long illness. Flandrin, Grossefeldt, and the others, all were present. The Hansgraf had failed to negotiate a ride downstream, and the disappointment was great. Following the long trek across Europe with its fighting and hardship, they longed for the lazy drift down the river and the sail across the Black Sea.
Sarzeau was grumbling. A good man and a fighter, since his wound he had changed. Lucca, commenting on it, said, “He thinks his luck has run out.”
It was obvious he intended to bicker with the Hansgraf. Grossefeldt, a stubborn, hard-headed man but a good leader, was seated beside him.
Yury Olgevichi was present. He was a leader of a new faction in Kiev, and I suspected him of some association with the tribes to the south. There was little on which to base my suspicion, but I believed he had done much to see we were denied passage on the boats. Khatib spied upon the meetings and assured me this was true. One of his wives was a Magyar woman.
What the Hansgraf had in mind, I did not know, but as we entered the meeting, I whispered to him the news Khatib brought.
Yury I had seen before and did not like, nor did I like the way he looked upon Suzanne. It was not only her beauty that interested him but the importance of Saône. To possess such a castle would give him immeasurable prestige, and I suspected Yury of ambitions toward Constantinople itself. Not many years past a prince of Kiev had led an attack on the Byzantine Empire, driving deep into their territory.
With a strong castle to the south, a fleet on the Black Sea, and a strong land force made up in part of the tribesmen who had moved in south of Kiev, Yury might pose a serious threat to Constantinople.
He was a tall, powerful man with a reputation as a fighter and a statesman as well. If he possessed the Castle Saône, he could prevent supplies or men reaching Constantinople by that route as well as draw upon the manpower available there. He was a somewhat larger man than I, extremely strong, a dangerous antagonist.
The Hansgraf opened with a statement. “We have been refused transportation down the river to the sea. I propose we travel overland, following the Dnieper for easier travel.”
My head came up, and I stared at him, but he ignored me. Follow the Dnieper? It was insane. The river flowed far to the east before taking a great bend to flow back toward the Black Sea. If he went overland, marching south, it was somewhat less than half the distance. To be sure, there was some protection along the river, but not much. To strike due south was the thing, but I did not interrupt.
Maps were almost nonexistent, and the few who knew the country chose to remain silent and await the Hansgraf’s plan.
“We could buy boats,” Sarzeau argued. “It is foolish to go overland. We have looked forward to the river and a rest.”
“We attempted to buy boats”—Lucca wished to avoid discussion if possible—“and none could be found. They can make more by carrying goods than men.”
“We could build our own boats.”
“We might build enough by spring,” Johannes said, “or we can wait a month until the river freezes and use sleds.”
Sarzeau started an angry reply, but Lucca spoke first. “Whatever we do, the decision must be made here, now. The season is already late.”
“What is the distance?” Grossefeldt asked.
“Perhaps six hundred miles. It is safer following the river.”
Sarzeau was determined to object. “We can find boats. We have not looked up the river.”
“You are free to look,” the Hansgraf said, “but the rest of us should leave tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Grossefeldt exploded. “Impossible! It is too soon!”
“Already there is snow just fifty miles to the north. It can snow here. However, I shall hold none of you to our agreement of unity unless you wish to reaffirm it. We—our company—will leave tomorrow with all who wish to accompany us.”
“I shall go,” Flandrin said quietly.
Sarzeau and Grossefeldt hesitated, but I was not watching them, or listening. I was watching Yury Olgevichi. His face was blank and innocent, yet I believed I detected in his eyes a spark of satisfaction.
The Hansgraf rose. “At daylight, then.”
Suzanne stood near me, and Yury crossed over to her, bowing. “Madame, if you would prefer the river, I can offer you my boat.”
“With Kerbouchard and our company?”
“The offer was made to you, madame. After all, for a woman of your position the boat is more comfortable.”
“I shall remain with the company. We have been quite comfortable, thank you.” She half turned away, then glanced over her shoulder at him. “Have you visited Constantinople, Prince Yury? Have you walked its walls? It might be advisable. It might save much trouble and disappointment.”
Startled and angry, he started a reply, but we walked away.
“So you have the same idea I have?”
“He has had little succe
sses, and he mistakes them for great victories. He has connived and intrigued in Novgorod and Kiev, and he believes he is prepared for Constantinople. Believe me, Mathurin, no people are so adept at intrigue as the Byzantines.”
“And if it comes to war?”
“He will be defeated before he comes within sight of the walls. While he is planning to make a dinner of them, they will make a breakfast of him.”
We stood together watching the sun sink, although the hour was early. There was a chill in the wind. Yes, I was ready to go, more than ready.
Leaves fell from beech trees at the camp’s edge; clouds caught the reflection of far-off sun-flame, blushing at the sight.
I did not like Prince Yury.
Chapter 38
*
THE HANSGRAF RUPERT von Gilderstern led, mounted on his powerful charger. He sat erect in his saddle as always, holding his bridle reins breast high in his left hand. He was truly a monumental figure.
Some distance away was the bank of the Dnieper, on our right the fields of the few who ventured to farm in the neighborhood of Kiev.
Behind the Hansgraf marched his company and that of his brother Peter; a little further back came that of Flandrin. The others followed in their respective places, with Sarzeau and Grossefeldt bringing up the rear.
Of retainers I had but one, the thief, beggar, and philosopher, Khatib. Before leaving Kiev, I called the jugglers and acrobats around me, a motley group most of whom I had known from Córdoba.
“I have no claim upon you, but I fear that Prince Yury will attempt to seize the Comtesse, and I cannot always be with her. If you would help to watch over her, it would be the greatest of favors.”
“Worry not,” Lolyngton said. “Where the Comtesse is, we will not be far away.”
We camped at the edge of a forest of beech and maple, our circle tight, our stock held under guard in a nearby meadow.
At sundown the Hansgraf called me to his tent. Peter, Flandrin, Sarzeau, Grossefeldt, and the others were present.
“Kerbouchard, you are our master of geography. How far to the sea if we travel directly south?”
“Half the distance of following the river, which bends far to the east.”
“That is it, then. We strike directly south.”
There was no argument. Even Sarzeau seemed pleased. If we could reach Constantinople before the boats, our market would be much better.
The Hansgraf arose. “Prepare to move within the hour.”
We had started out of the tent; now all stopped. “What?” Flandrin protested. “Tonight?”
“Our enemies will have satisfied themselves we are following the river. Now we shall make forced marches. In ten days we shall reach the sea. If we are fortunate”—he paused, his eyes going from one to the other—“we shall do it in eight days, perhaps even in seven.”
Outside, Sarzeau muttered, “He is a good man. Sometimes I think not, but I am wrong. What do you think of this move, hey?”
“There will be fewer river crossings, and the rivers will be narrower than where they enter the Dnieper.”
“Yes, yes! Of course! I had not thought of that.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “You are a good man, too, Kerbouchard. You should give up whatever plans you have and remain a merchant.”
At first we used marketing roads traveled by farmers, then we cut across country, for there was no road the way we had chosen.
It was open country, for the forest line was falling behind us, although there were patches of forest and, of course, thick growth along the streams. By daybreak we had fifteen miles behind us.
On the third day we entered the valley of the Bug River. Far away on our right was the Volyno-Podolak upland, but aside from dips into streambeds, the country was flat or gently rolling, presenting few obstacles. Usually, I rode out in front, discovering the way, removing obstructions, alert for danger.
The Bug River was now our guide, and we followed the western bank. Oak, which had been plentiful, had given way to beech; maple mixed with ash and occasional elm. Game was plentiful, grazing excellent. The grasses were blue or wheat grass, where we saw and sometimes killed saiga antelope, red deer, roebuck, and wild boar. From time to time we saw small bands of tarpan, or wild horses. They were mouse-colored with a dark stripe down the back.
Each company had hunters who ranged far afield to supplement our supplies and to scout the land as I was doing. By nightfall of that third day we had a hundred miles behind us, approximately a third of the distance. For the boats descending the river, progress would be slow except for a short stretch through the rapids of the Dnieper. Kiev was of no great elevation, and the rate of descent, including the rapids, was not more than eighty feet to the mile.
Long since we had crossed the Bug, which flowed into the river we had been following from the northwest, and now we approached the Chicheklaya.
Lolyngton, Johannes, and I had ridden far in quest of game. We had seen several bear and one moose, although no more than a glimpse, when Lolyngton suddenly drew rein, lifting a hand. “I smell smoke,” he said.
We were traversing a small meadow bordered by a fine stand of ash, and we held our mounts, trying the wind.
“A campfire,” I said, “it can be no more than that.”
We had seen no one in days, now we entered the woods, picking our way. Johannes, who was not feeling his best, remained with the horses. We wore chain mail with tunics over it and conical helmets brought from Spain.
Threading our way, we came to a blowdown where a number of trees had been felled by a great blast of wind. We stopped well back under the trees, for an observer who knows his business remains back under the trees where he is concealed but can see just as well.
Clustered around a fire not over a hundred yards away were a dozen strangely clad men. They wore conical helmets, somewhat different from our own, and tunics of hide that fell to the knee but were split up the sides for easy riding. Their boots seemed to be of soft leather, and they carried quivers of arrows and shorter, thicker bows than I had seen. They were swarthy men with broad, flat faces, narrow eyes, and square jaws. They looked a rugged and dangerous lot.
Eyes appear as dots at one hundred yards; mouth and eyes can usually be plainly seen at fifty yards, so we were actually somewhere between the two distances, not nearly enough if they gave chase.
These were the Petchenegs of whom we heard, hard-riding men from the steppes of Asia. Such as these had long ago attacked and destroyed Roman armies.
As we watched, one of the soldiers lifted his saddle and brought out a slab of meat. I recalled hearing such was their method of tenderizing meat, carrying it between the horse and the saddle and riding on it all day. The idea did not appeal to me, but the smell of broiling meat aroused our hunger. We drew back deeper into the woods, then returned to Johannes. “This must be reported to the Hansgraf at once,” he said.
“Do you return. I shall circle about to find where they come from and if there are more.”
“What of you? We shall move on, you know.”
“Drive hard for the sea. If they are some distance from their main body, we will gain distance.”
When they had gone I mounted and rode until I came upon the Petchenegs’ tracks. At a swift canter I rode their back trail, and coming to a rise, I turned in my saddle. In the distance was the flat plain over which we had crossed with the caravan.
Riding a short distance along the rise, I found where a large body of horsemen had stopped for some time, facing the river.
They had seen us then, but how far away was their main body?
The day was warm; a slight breeze stirred the few leaves remaining and rattled skeleton fingers among the bare trees. A heron flew up from a sphagnum bog, and I followed the back trail of the Petchenegs. Topping a rise, I saw their camp lay before me, and my heart lay heavy within me, for the black tents spread wide upon the plain.
How many tents? How many horses?
Five thousand men? Ten thousand? I look
ed at the horse herd, and even allowing for three or four horses per man as was often the case with the Petchenegs, it was a great number. If they came against us, we would be swept up like leaves in the wind. We would be destroyed, trampled into bloody dust.
Flight, swift, driving flight, was our only recourse. The Hansgraf would suspect, when Johannes reached him, that the party we had seen were not alone.
By now our company would be moving, flying toward the sea, but their scouting party would be riding in, and their army would mount.
Could I stop them? Slow them, even a little?
Far off, a party of horsemen were riding toward the Petcheneg camp, and the man riding that magnificent gray horse, surely two such horses did not exist, that man I knew, even at the distance.
It was Prince Yury.
They were some distance away, and the idea came as naturally as such an idea can come.
The attack on the convoy must be delayed, and the Petchenegs kept in their camp, and there was nothing, or so I had heard, they liked better than to witness a good fight.
Prince Yury’s presence could mean but one thing: that he had come to enlist their services against us if he had not done so already. Therefore, Prince Yury was my enemy.
Deliberately, I rode my horse into the bright sunlight, removing my tunic so the sun could strike my bright-polished armor. I wanted them to see me; they must see me.
“All right, Ayesha, let us hope you do not have a fool for a master and that his blade cuts sharply this day!”
Touching her lightly with a heel, I rode my mare down the gentle slope toward the camp of my enemies. I sat very straight in the saddle. I rode at an easy canter.
Perhaps I rode to my death, but at whatever the cost there must be delay for the caravan and my friends. Without it they would have no chance.
Novel 1984 - The Walking Drum (v5.0) Page 29
