76
For the next two days I try to keep myself busy, catching up on my work, but my heart’s not in it. People leave me alone, like they know something’s wrong. I send in a request to go back and visit Frederick, but my note comes back stamped ‘REFUSED’, and no explanation. I know I need a break, maybe even a mind-clean, but the thought of losing her – even the little I have – fills me with dread. This is indeed a form of madness, for I would rather have the memory of her – torment that it is – than nothing.
And so I persevere, into a third day. A day of reckoning.
77
It begins as any other day. I wake from dreams of her and roll on to my back and groan. For a while I lie there, my eyes closed, listening to the silence. And then I sense it. Something’s changed. Something’s happened in the past, and everything is different again.
I go to see Hecht, only he’s not there. At the platform they don’t seem to know where he is, but then, suddenly, he’s there, jumped back from who knows where, his hair smoking, his clothes on fire.
I help put him out, then stand there, waiting for him to say something, but all he says is: ‘Briefing. My room. Now.’
‘What’s happened?’ I ask, before he can say a word. ‘I felt the change.’
His eyes widen. ‘Did you?’ And he sits. For a time he’s silent, thinking some problem through, and then he looks at me, his mind made up.
‘I want you to go back, Otto. To Novgorod. Ernst is missing. I think he may be dead. He was … compromised.’
I wait, and Hecht explains.
‘You were right, Otto. Kravchuk is an agent for the Mongols. And Nevsky’s definitely on his payroll. But something else is happening. I think Yastryeb has made a move.’
‘And Ernst?’
‘We lost contact with him, and when we activated his focus, nothing happened. He didn’t come back. That’s why I went in, to see if I could find him. I jumped to his last known location, but he wasn’t there.’
‘How long was he in there?’
‘Two months subjective.’
‘And what do we know?’
Hecht spells it out. Ernst jumped back twice, to report on things. On the second occasion, Hecht felt he seemed nervous, but as Ernst made no reference to any threat, he let it pass. What he’d learned confirmed our suspicions. Kravchuk was one of a network of Mongol agents sent in before the invasion. Each carried letters from the Great Khan, offering generous terms should the recipient prince come to an agreement with the Khan. But those letters were to be handed over only once other, more covert negotiations had been concluded. They were to ‘sound out’ all of the princes of the ruling Riurikid dynasty and certain princes – those who it was felt would be willing to listen to the Great Khan’s inducements – would then be targeted. Each agent was given the means to ‘buy’ whoever they needed to gain access to those princes. Kravchuk’s target was ‘Nevsky’.
‘So what’s Yastryeb’s involvement?’
‘I don’t know. But they’ve agents there. Ernst saw one of them. A fellow named Alekhin.’
‘I don’t know him.’
‘No. But it seems he’s an expert on that period. A big, heavily bearded man. Fits in perfectly with his surroundings. The interesting thing, however, is where Ernst saw him.’
‘Go on.’
‘He was in Nevsky’s entourage. Part of his druzhina, his comrades-in-arms.’
I take in the significance of that. To get that close to Nevsky means he would have had to have stayed in situ for a long, long time. Years, maybe even tens of years.
‘A bodyguard, you think?’
‘Maybe. And maybe not the only one. Ernst was going to try to find out.’
‘Do you think they know about Kravchuk?’
Hecht shrugs. ‘I don’t know, but I’d guess no. If they knew, they’d have had him killed, don’t you think?’
It’s what I’d do if I were them.
‘And the fire?’
I indicate his charred clothes, and he nods. ‘When I couldn’t find Ernst, I went back to your rooms. I was only in there five minutes when the whole place went up.’
‘Yastryeb?’
‘Who else? Unless someone’s invented the grenade four centuries early.’
‘So how did they know you were there?’
Hecht smiles, and it’s like the sun on a winter’s day. ‘That’s what I want you to find out, Otto. That’s why you’re going back.’
78
Back again, to the summer of 1237.
I arrive at the town gates, a heavy pack on my shoulders, and pay the toll. Inside, I make my way quickly through the packed streets, the mid-morning sun making me sweat beneath the rough clothes I’m wearing. Hecht has told me to find a room, then seek out Kravchuk. He wants me to be Kravchuk’s friend, to win his trust and be his confidant, but I’ve another plan. I know that Kravchuk’s been here only three days – not time enough to make friends – but time’s limited, and I want to be sure.
Razumovsky stares at me doubtfully, then has his steward search me for a knife. The fact that I know his name makes him wary of me, for he’s never heard of me, and he deals with many Nemets. Moreover there have been troubles with the Germans lately. The Livonian Brothers of the Sword have merged with the Teutonic Order and are pressing all along the north-west border of this land, so strangers are highly suspect, and I’m a stranger. Even so, he does not shirk his hospitality, and as I sit there, so his servant brings me a beer, and we drink a toast to his family.
‘You have a family, trader?
‘No. But I am looking for a wife.’
Razumovsky grins. ‘A good German wife, I suppose.’
‘Not at all. I mean to settle here, in Novgorod.’
‘To settle?’ His eyes take on a thoughtful cast.
‘That’s so. I plan to buy a plot of land in the Peterhof and build myself a house. Nothing grand, you understand. Nothing as grand as this, anyway.’
Razumovsky smiles at my compliment.
‘But who knows,’ I say. ‘I have contacts back home in Stuttgart. Men who know me and trust me, and would welcome an agent in this town. If all goes well …’
He studies me, his right hand pulling at his beard, and then he stands. ‘You have the means to do this, trader? To buy land and set up home here?’
‘I do,’ I say. ‘And call me Otto, please, Mikhail.’
He nods, then tilts his head a little. ‘And you say you are looking for a wife?’
‘She must be young,’ I say, ‘and pretty. And she must come from a good household. I’ll not marry one who doesn’t. Oh, and she must be of the Orthodox faith.’
This last surprises him. ‘You’re Orthodox?’
‘Not yet. But I plan to convert. I want to put down roots here, Mikhail. Novgorod is a growing town, and I want my sons to be a part of it.’
This impresses him and sends him into a second bout of thoughtfulness. He looks at me, then nods to himself. ‘You have your eye on a young woman, Otto?’
‘No one in particular. But your friend Chernenko told me you would be sure to know someone.’
‘You know Chernenko?’
I do, only he hasn’t met me yet. Not in this time-line. But I will rectify that later. Even so, it does the trick.
‘Look,’ he says, putting his arm about my shoulder. ‘There is a girl, but, well, it’s delicate. Maybe we could talk some more. Over dinner, perhaps?’
‘Dinner?’
He nods and grins at me. ‘You’ll be my guest, I hope.’
‘I’d be delighted. Only …’
He narrows his eyes. ‘Only what?’
‘You see,’ I begin, as if this is awkward for me. ‘It’s not that I don’t trust the people I am staying with, but, well, all of my worldly goods are here, in my pack. If I had somewhere I could store it. Somewhere it would be safe …’
Razumovsky beams. ‘Look no more. You can leave it here, my friend. There’s no safer place in the whole city.’
I look embarrassed. ‘You’re very kind, but …’ I pause, then, going to the pack, pull out the top item, and, stepping over to the table, open up the plain white cloth in which it’s wrapped.
Razumovsky’s eyes open wide in astonishment. ‘Mother of God!’
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ And I hand him the silver dagger with its jewel-encrusted hilt, and watch as his eyes drink in the beauty of its workmanship.
‘Who made this?’ he asks.
‘A friend.’
‘A good friend, or did you pay him for it?’
I meet his eyes and smile. ‘Oh, I paid him. One hundred thaler.’
Razumovsky’s eyes wrinkle with calculation. ‘One hundred? And it’s worth …?’
‘Five hundred. Maybe a thousand. The jewels are real, not paste.’
In fact, they’re made of my DNA, but they’re good enough to fool anyone in this Age. And there are other things beside. I show them to him, one by one, and know, as he hands each back, that his mind has been busy calculating.
‘There is a girl …’
And I smile and accept his kind offer of a room.
‘Tonight,’ he says. ‘We’ll talk some more tonight.’
79
I have washed and dressed, putting on a long shirt of the finest linen and a deerskin jacket, long leather boots and a hat of soft kid. Dressed so, I look more like a prince than a trader, and Razumovsky greets me with a respectful bow before turning and introducing me to his other guest.
Who smiles, and stands, and offers me his hand.
Kravchuk.
Razumovsky sees nothing, but Kravchuk notes the hesitation, and there’s a sudden question in his eyes.
‘You know me, trader?’
I smile, trying to disarm him, but my pulse is racing and I find it hard to breathe.
‘No,’ I say. ‘No, it’s just – you reminded me briefly of someone. A friend.’
He accepts that, nods, then grasps my hands and shakes them. But I am still surprised to find him here. When did he call? Or has he known Razumovsky a long time now?
I look to my host, as if seeking an explanation, but he seems unaware that there’s a need. It seems, however, that he’s told Kravchuk about me.
‘I hear you are from Stuttgart, Otto. It’s a very pleasant town.’
It is, but I have never been there. Not in this century. And so I shift the subject, to my fictitious travels in the Asian heartland, and find Kravchuk staring at me thoughtfully, as if maybe I know him after all.
He says little, not wishing to betray whence he’s come, and so I change the subject once again.
‘They say the veche here are unhappy with their prince.’
Kravchuk’s eyes go to me, then he looks away. But Razumovsky laughs. ‘If it were possible, we would have no prince at all! But it will be a cold day in hell before Kiev imposes one on us!’
He leans toward me, about to say more, when there’s a movement in the doorway behind him. He turns and grins.
‘Ah, Masha, Katerina …’
The two women of the house enter, each carrying a large wooden tray stacked high with food. There’s ham and chicken, cheese and pickled fish and more besides.
I look on, amazed, falling in love with her again. Yet for a time she does not even notice me, but goes about her task, helping her mother set the table. And only when she’s done and turns, a half-smile on her lips, do our eyes finally meet.
I watch as her lips slowly part with the shock of recognition. There is a moment’s naked panic in her eyes, and then she looks away, colour forming at her neck and in her cheeks.
I am a stranger to her, yet now – and I can see it clearly from where I stand – her heart beats quickly beneath the bright blue blouse she wears.
‘Gentlemen,’ Razumovsky begins, stepping between the two women and turning, an arm about each, ‘let me introduce my wife, Masha, and my daughter, Katerina.’
And I make to step forward, to take her hand and kiss it, but Kravchuk is there in front of me, bowing low before her, his hat removed.
‘Katerina,’ he says. ‘What a delightful name …’
80
It is an evening hardly to be borne. It is not simply that the man is odious, it is the fact that Razumovsky can’t see through his boasts and flattery and glimpse the little slug he really is. In fact, by the evening’s end, I have come to think Katerina’s father a total fool. Even so, I try one last, vain time to speak to him alone about his daughter’s hand, only to have him raise it at the table.
‘Hark, Oleg! Otto here wants my daughter’s hand!’
Kravchuk stiffens, then looks at me challengingly. ‘He is no Russian, Mikhail,’ he says coldly. ‘And Russians should marry Russians. It is not good to mix the blood.’
I stare back at him, furious. I want to kill him, only I’ve no weapon on me. Besides, it’s Razumovsky’s decision, not his.
I look to my host and realise just how drunk he is. Bleary-eyed drunk. Can’t-hold-your-head-up drunk. He just wants to fall over in the corner and sleep.
‘Wha—?’
‘I said,’ Kravchuk begins, but I cut him short.
‘Don’t interfere. Hear me? You say another word, I’ll kill you.’
‘You’ll what?’ And Kravchuk laughs, and reaches across to take another chicken leg. ‘Kill me, my arse! You’re all hot air, you Germans. As full of shit as a pig’s intestines!’
I stand, glaring at him. But he’s not even looking at me. It’s as if I’m of no consequence, and I feel the urge to tell him that I’ve killed him once already – burned a hole in his fucking head – only he’d think me mad. So I leave before I do something I regret. Only as I go to step into the street, someone catches my arm and I turn to find her there, wrapped in a cloak, a shadow in the darkness by the gate, and she says the words I sense she’s said a hundred times or more.
‘Who are you?’
And I answer her with a kiss, and then I take her hand and lead her out into the darkness of that thirteenth-century night, away from Kravchuk and her fool of a father. And she asks me where we’re going, and I say I don’t know, just away, and I realise that I have left all of my belongings behind, but it doesn’t matter. I have the only thing I need with me. The only thing I value. And when we stop, beyond the bridge, beneath a cresset lamp that burns fitfully in its metal cage, I take her face in my hands and kiss her once again and tell her that I love her, and her eyes, the image of which are burned into my soul, shine back at me in that wavering light as she smiles and softly laughs.
81
As the dawn’s light fills the room, I wake to find her there beside me, naked, her dark hair spread across my pillow, and I know that I must have died and gone to heaven, for I have not ever seen such beauty.
I watch her for a time, content to see her sleeping there beside me, the memory of what we did in the night filling me.
Razumovsky would kill me if he knew. But she is no longer his. She is mine now. My wife. For all eternity.
And I know that I have crossed some Rubicon of the soul, but it matters nothing. All that matters lies beside me now, her warmth, her sweet reality my compass and my anchor for all time. And I know now what I sensed that very first time I saw her, that nothing will part us now. Nothing.
Even so, I must go and see her father.
She wakes, and her eyes, opening to me, are filled with love. We kiss, and that kiss reminds us of the night, and she and I begin again that sweetest game of all, that game of mouths and tongues and fingers, and our bodies press hard, as if to merge, my need and hers a single, growing force, until she cries out, her body arching under mine, and I groan and feel my seed course into her.
Afterwards she lies there, crying quietly, and I ask her why, and she tells me it’s because she has never been so happy. And I am struck with awe that she is mine. Wiping her tears away, she lifts herself up on to her elbow, looking down at me, a strange intelligence in her eyes.
�
��How do I know you, Otto? Where is it that we’ve met? And how, then, did I ever forget you? For surely I must have. It’s just that it seems … unnatural.’
I almost laugh and tell her everything: that I hail from a time so distant that more than fifty generations separate us … Only I don’t, for I know that such knowledge would frighten her. And, having won her so completely, I fear to lose her now. Yet she seems to sense something. It is as if she knows. But knows what?
‘The priests who taught me,’ she says, one finger gently tracing the length of my jaw, making me shiver at the touch, ‘they claim that everything is pre-ordained. That God alone has set our destiny. Only being here with you I begin to question that. You and I … it’s like we were fated. I’m not even sure what I mean by that, only … I knew you, Otto. Knew you at first sight. One moment nothing, and the next …’
She leans closer, lowering her face to mine, her lips to mine, her breasts warm, like silk against my chest. Yet even as I turn and reach across to caress her face, there is a hammering at the door.
‘Behr! Come out! Come out, you bastard!’
I look to her, seeing the fear in her eyes, and try to reassure her.
‘It’s okay,’ I say softly. ‘It’ll be okay.’
But I know I’m in trouble, and while normally I could just jump right out of there, I cannot leave her. That’s Kravchuk’s voice, and if he’s come, he’ll not be alone. He’ll have his Mongol friends with him.
‘Get dressed,’ I tell her. ‘Then go over to the corner. They’ll not harm you.’
‘But Otto …’
My voice grows hard as the hammering comes again. ‘Do as I say! We’ll be all right.’
She dresses hurriedly, and once she’s ready, I go to the door and draw the upper bolt.
Kravchuk is there, of course, and his three friends. He stares at me, surprised to find me naked, then steps inside and sniffs the air. A cruel smile appears on his lips.
‘Oh dear … Our friend Razumovsky won’t be pleased.’
I face him squarely. ‘What do you want, Kravchuk?’
The Empire of Time Page 23
