“I am as you name me, a Christian knight and a leader of Christian knights. I am also an Archduke of the Holy Roman Empire, and I take oath by that. From where the sun now stands, I swear the lands of the Rus will be untroubled by the knights of the Order from this day forward, for my lifetime. I can say no more.”
Ivan glanced at Mar’ya Morevna. “Do you believe him?” he said with an edge to his voice that suggested his own mind was already made up.
“No. I heard only words, words and more words. Easily spoken, easily forgotten. And I don’t trust him to regard his oath as binding. He took care not to swear on the cross, despite wearing so many of them.” Von Salza gave her a look that made Ivan glad the man had been disarmed, but Mar’ya Morevna seemed not to notice. Instead she pointed her nagayka whip at the Grand Master and narrowed her eyes. Her lips moved silently.
Then the double lashes of the whip cracked as she snapped it downward, and for an instant Ivan could see a cloud of blue-white sparks swirling like gnats on the cold air. When they struck Hermann von Salza squarely in the face he reeled and almost fell, then steadied again as they flared bright and vanished.
“I believe him now,” said Mar’ya Morevna. Her voice was bleak. “You called me a witch, Grand Master, and that was scarcely polite. I’m a sorcerer. And this is a whip. A means of inflicting pain. You and your knights had best not return to Russia. Otherwise…” She ran the lashes of the nagayka between her fingers and more sparks dripped from them, sizzling like hot oil. Von Salza gasped and shuddered, clutching at his head with both hands as if those drips of fire were searing the brain within his skull. “I want peace in the land before my children are born, and if I have to hurt you before you hurt them, so be it.”
Prince Ivan’s head snapped around, and he stared at his wife with a huge smile softening his stern expression. Then he signed the Grand Master with a blessing of the life-giving cross, first in the Russian style and a second time in the manner of the Roman Church. “Live long, if you live in peace,” he said. “And may your God go with you.”
The guards returned and escorted Hermann von Salza away to where the remnant of his army were already trudging back towards the border. Mar’ya Morevna watched him go, carefully plaiting the lashes of her whip around its handle before thrusting it through her belt. Ivan, however, was watching her.
“You didn’t tell me anything about children,” he said.
Mar’ya Morevna smiled at him. “I wasn’t certain myself until today, though being sick five mornings in a row suggested something besides bad rations. And as for telling you, there was enough to think about.”
“How do you know?” This time Mar’ya Morevna laughed out loud. “I mean, are you sure?”
“Vanya, most women are sure. I’m a sorcerer. I’m certain.”
“But when…?”
She leaned from her saddle and patted Ivan’s arm, grinning wickedly. “With you, my ever-eager loved, it’s hard to tell. But I think it was that first night in the Summer Country.”
Prince Ivan stared at Mar’ya Morevna. “For Heaven’s sake, you’ve just been in a battle! You must be exhausted! Shouldn’t you lie down for a rest?”
“Vanya, it’s going to be months before I need…” Then she smiled, because not even the fairest Princess in all the Russias could object to being pampered, just a little…
ПОСЛЕСЛОВИЕ
(Epilogue)
Despite Prince Ivan’s blessing, Hermann von Salza did not live long. He died three years later, but during those years he kept his word, to the letter, to the death, and perhaps just a little beyond. The people of the Rus had what they wished: peace and plenty for the most part, although for those who wanted more, that was granted too.
History tells even to this day of Aleksandr Nevskiy, and how he defeated the Teutonic Knights in a battle on the ice. Of what other lords and princes might have fought beside him, there is no mention. It was Aleksandr Nevskiy’s own chronicler who first set down the tale, and he recorded no other names.
Hermann von Salza went to his grave in the year 1239 and the peace he promised died with him; for in Spring of the next year, the Tatars of the Golden Horde closed their grip upon Russia…
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Firebird (Tales of Old Russia Book 2) Page 34
