When Love Commands Page 22

  “You’re certainly sympathetic,” I said.

  “Orlov, maybe he beats you. I hope so.”

  I struggled in his arms. He held me fast.

  “Maybe I do not give you wolf’s hide after all.”

  “You may take your wolf’s hide and—and—”

  “Shove it up my backside?”

  “Precisely!”

  “Ah, you feel much better now. Is good. Vanya smiles. I worry maybe you badly hurt.”

  He climbed to his feet and pulled me up and, defiant, I pulled free of his arms and my knees doubled up and I threw my arms around his neck to keep from falling. He folded his arms around me again, holding me loosely, tenderly, and I felt enormous gratitude and affection for this savage cossack who had become my friend. I felt wonderfully safe and secure in his arms, as I might feel in the arms of a swaggering older brother.

  Vanya looked over my shoulder as five more horsemen came galloping noisily into the woods, and I turned to see Vladimir, Ivan and three other guards dismounting. Vanya tightened his arms around me. Vladimir looked at us and looked at Josef Pulaski sprawled on the snow and scowled, eyes fierce as he took in the situation and surmised what had happened.

  “I know this woman causes trouble!” he thundered. “I know it from the first!”

  “You, Vladimir, shut up!” Vanya ordered.

  “The minute I see her I know she is trouble for us all!”

  “You, Vladimir! You say one more word I knock all your teeth down your throat and watch you choke as you try to swallow them.”

  Vladimir longed to continue ranting, but he knew full well Vanya did not make idle threats. He fell into a murderous silence, glaring around as though looking for a head to bash. Pulaski moaned painfully and opened his eyes, blinking, trying to focus. Vladimir stomped over and seized his hair and jerked him to his feet. The peasant gave an agonized yell as Vladimir grabbed his wrist, twisted it brutually and shoved the arm high between his shoulder blades.

  “I march him back to the village!” Vladimir roared. “You, Ivan, bring my horse!”

  One hand holding Pulaski’s hair, jerking his head back, the other holding the twisted wrist high behind his back, he gave the peasant a shove and forced him to walk ahead. Josef Pulaski yelled again as Vladimir gave his wrist another twist, shoving it higher. They moved through the icy trees, Pulaski stumbling, screaming in agony as Vladimir continued to twist and shove.

  “He’s going to break the man’s arm!” I protested.

  “Is no matter,” Vanya assured me. “Can you ride Natasha?”

  “In—give me a few more minutes.”

  “Is very short ride. Village is just beyond those trees.”

  “I—I was lost,” I said.

  “Yes, you are a great ninny. This is a good word? You do the foolish thing and you get into trouble. Is Russia we are in. Is not safe for woman to go for ride alone.”

  “I detest this bloody country!”

  “Is not like your England,” he agreed.

  The other men had already mounted and were walking their horses toward the village, following Vladimir and Pulaski, who were now almost out of sight. Natasha came over to rub her head against my shoulder. I stroked her cheek, wanting to cry now, too proud to do so. I brushed snow from my cloak, took a deep breath and, moving around, attempted to put my foot into the stirrup and catch hold of the saddlehorn. I couldn’t make it. Vanya shook his head, caught me around my waist and swung me up into the saddle as though I were as light as thistledown.

  “We go slow,” he said. “I walk ahead, lead Natasha behind me.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of riding her back without your assistance. I’m not a baby, Vanya!”

  “This is a matter of opinion,” he told me.

  He whistled to his horse, which followed us, and, taking Natasha’s rein, walked slowly under the ice-encrusted trees. Natasha stepped carefully, as though she knew I was bruised and sore. Sunlight shimmered, paler now. The shadows spreading across the snow had deepened to a violet-gray, and the sky was now the color of pewter. It was colder. Clouds were gathering. Vanya’s horse sauntered along behind us. Ivan and the others had already disappeared.

  I held on to the saddlehorn, badly shaken but not really hurt. I dreaded seeing Orlov. He would blame me, too, and rightfully so. I had been totally foolhardy, riding out alone. We cleared the line of trees. I could see the village up ahead: the troikas, the tents, the cluster of huts beyond. A loud rumble of voices reached our ears. The clearing in the middle of the village was filled with men, all of them shouting and waving their arms.

  “What will happen now?” I asked.

  “The peasant will be punished,” Vanya said. “This will cause bad feeling in the village. The other peasants, they will be angry. Is nothing for you to worry about.”

  “I’m responsible, Vanya. I feel terrible.”

  “Do not fret about it,” he told me. “Vanya takes care of you.”

  “What will they do to him?”

  “This I do not know. In the old days his eyes would be torn out of their sockets and he would be turned loose in the woods at night for the wolves to find.”

  “Jesus!”

  “If he is lucky, Orlov will merely kill him.”

  There was a tight feeling in my chest as Vanya led me into the village. No one paid the least attention to us as we stopped in front of the huge gray tent. The servants went on about their tasks with lowered eyes, deliberately avoiding looking at us, and the men packing the clearing were too busy arguing to notice our arrival. Orlov was shouting at one of the peasants, a huge, burly fellow who held a pitchfork menacingly. Vladimir was nearby, his arm locked securely around the throat of Josef Pulaski. Pulaski gagged and gurgled, tugging frantically at the arm crushing his windpipe. Every male in the village seemed to be in the clearing, most of them armed with pitchforks and hoes and hand scythes. All our cossacks and guards were there, too, pistols and sabres at the ready. Harsh, angry voices made an incredible din. A full-scale riot was clearly imminent.

  Vanya helped me down from the horse, his face impassive. He appeared not to notice the chaos. The groom who had saddled Natasha for me took the reins of both our horses with trembling hands. His cheeks were chalk white as he led the animals into the tent. Vanya watched him with speculative eyes, and I made him promise the lad would not be punished. It was a promise he gave most reluctantly, and although the groom would not receive a beating, I suspected his life would be miserable for some time to come.

  “I take you to your quarters,” Vanya said.

  “I—Vanya, I can’t let this happen. The man didn’t—he didn’t actually harm me. I must tell them that. I—”

  “I am most patient, Marietta. I treat you like the tender child who has been naughty. Because you are Vanya’s dear friend, because you do not belong to him, I do not give you the rain of blows, the black eye, and bloody nose you deserve, but if you give me trouble now I will knock you out and carry you to your hut across my shoulder.”

  “I must—”

  His right hand balled into a tight fist. His eyes darkened. I fell silent. He nodded curtly and, slinging a protective arm around my shoulders, led me around the edge of the clearing toward my hut. I was trembling now, barely able to walk. The men continued to shout. A cossack shoved one of the peasants to the ground and planted a boot across his throat when the man tried to get up. A pistol was fired into the air. I stumbled and closed my eyes for a moment, consumed with guilt, in anguish. Vanya tightened his grip on my shoulders, leading me on. Two heavily armed cossacks were guarding the door of my hut. Slinging the sheepskin aside, Vanya led me in.

  “Thank God you’re alive!” Lucie cried, rushing toward us. “I didn’t know what happened. When Vladimir led the peasant into the village all hell seemed to break loose.”

  “I’m all right,” I said in a faint voice.

  “I hurried out when I heard the noise. My uncle ordered me to go back to my hut. I came here instead.
Marietta, I’ve been frantic!”

  Vanya sat me down in the chair. He opened a decanter and poured brandy into a glass and ordered me to drink it. I obeyed. The fiery liquor seemed to set my throat afire, but I scarcely noticed. Lucie seized my hand, squeezing it tightly. Numb with delayed shock, I looked at her as though I had never seen her before.

  “Is she—did he—”

  “I think not,” Vanya replied. “She claims he did not harm her.”

  “What—”

  “She was sprawled on the ground. He was standing over her. He may not have harmed her, but he intended to do so. For this he must pay.”

  “Marietta, are you—are you really all right? Your face is pale. You look strange. Vanya, give her another glass of brandy. Oh, I should have gone with her! Vladimir and Ivan would have followed us and none of this would have happened!”

  “Here, you drink the brandy. One crazy woman Vanya can deal with. Two is impossible even for him.”

  The roar outside began to subside somewhat, voices lowered, shouting becoming an angry grumble. Lucie stepped to the doorway and held the sheepskin back, peering out, much to Vanya’s displeasure. The two cossacks guarding the door didn’t look any too pleased either.

  “The shaman has condescended to come out,” Lucie announced. “The peasants are making a path for him. He’s going to speak to my uncle.”

  Leaving the chair, I joined her in the doorway. Vanya scowled but didn’t try to interfere. He hovered behind us, one hand toying with the hilt of his sabre, the other holding a cocked pistol, ready to defend us to the death if necessary.

  The wizened old priest in his flowing, embroidered robes and tall cone-shaped hat moved with unquestionable authority. There was something hypnotic about him as though he were indeed imbued with those dark powers the peasants believed him to possess. Gregory Orlov stood with legs spread wide, fists resting on his thighs, his own authority every bit as potent. The shaman nodded, acknowledging him as an equal. He seemed completely unperturbed by the furor that had turned his quiet village nearly into a battleground.

  “What is this that upsets my people?” he inquired. Despite his age and physical frailty, his voice was a deep, powerful rumble.

  “This man—he follows a female of our party into the woods. He accosts her. My men capture him.”

  Orlov jerked his head to one side, identifying Pulaski as the individual in question. Still locked in Vladimir’s brutal hold, Pulaski wriggled, tried to speak. Vladimir yanked his arm back savagely. The tall peasant made hideous gurgling noises, clutching at the arm that punished him.

  “This is true?” the shaman asked. “Let him speak.”

  Vladimir loosened his hold. Pulaski rasped hoarsely, still unable to speak. Scowling, Vladimir relieved the pressure a bit more, clearly displeased. Pulaski coughed, his face a bright pink.

  “Speak up!” the shaman ordered.

  “I follow her, yes,” Pulaski admitted, his voice a painful rasp but audible now. “I speak to her. I do not harm her. If she says I harm her she lies!”

  The priest turned back to Orlov, ignoring the peasant.

  “The woman is unharmed?”

  “I have not seen her,” Orlov replied. “My men say there is no apparent injury. This is unimportant. The man must die.”

  The peasants grumbled loudly, a few of them shouting. The shaman raised his arm out straight, sweeping his eyes over the crowd, commanding them to be silent. They obeyed. A curious hush fell over the village, broken only by the noises of Pulaski who now struggled mightily to break the powerful hold restraining him. Face utterly impassive, Vladimir drew his arm back with brutal precision. Pulaski grew still, barely conscious now.

  “His is a serious offense,” the shaman agreed.

  “He must die!” Orlov insisted.

  The grumbling began again, a menacing rumble far more frightening than the shouting had been. Restless, irate, seething with discontent at a thousand injustices, the peasants were obviously ready to fight for their comrade and, curiously, were not at all intimidated by the fierce cossacks and guardsmen who, though fewer in number, were far superior in strength. Pitchforks and scythes would be no match for the pistols and sabres Orlov’s men had been trained to use with deadly efficiency. I had the feeling Pulaski was responsible for this suicidal attitude, that he had been stirring them up to fever pitch for many days, perhaps weeks.

  “Silence!” the shaman ordered. “This man is not of our village,” he continued in his normal voice, addressing Orlov. “I have not the authority to agree to his death.”

  “I do not need your authority,” Orlov retorted.

  The shaman looked around at the men crowding the clearing, the peasants willing to fight to the death, eager to do so, the heavily armed cossacks restless, spoiling for a rousing fight. He hesitated a moment before continuing, and I could almost see his wily mind working as he shaped the words.

  “My people are most unhappy, as you see. This man comes to our village, and he makes many friends. He causes trouble, this I admit. He preaches new ideas, sows discontentment. This I do not like, but if I permit you to kill him my people will fight. There will be needless bloodshed. Some of my people will die.”

  Orlov’s belligerent manner left little doubt that there would indeed be bloodshed. He and the shaman both knew that the peasants would be slaughtered, the cossacks suffering few if any injuries. Orlov was growing more impatient by the moment, temper steadily rising, and his men grinned in anticipation of a lusty fray after months of inactivity.

  “We’ve got to stop it,” I whispered. “I’m going to—”

  Vanya seized my arm just above the elbow, his fingers curling around it in a steely grip that caused me to wince. “You will do nothing,” he said. “Vanya hurts you badly if necessary.”

  “You must let me—”

  “Be still!” he commanded.

  I obeyed, gnawing my lower lip, trembling at the thought of what was going to happen any moment now. One of the peasants shoved a cossack standing beside him, raised his scythe, yelled. Calmly, without even flinching, the cossack put a bullet between the man’s eyes. The peasant fell to the ground, blood and brains splattering. Several of the peasants turned pale. The cossack blew on the barrel of his pistol and calmly reloaded as another frightening silence fell over the crowd. Neither Orlov nor the shaman seemed particularly disturbed by the incident, seemed scarcely to notice, locked as they were in a battle of wills.

  A woman began to wail inside one of the huts. The body of the peasant lay crumpled on the ground where it had fallen, those around it deliberately averting their eyes from the grisly sight.

  “How many more of your people must die?” Orlov inquired.

  “No one else need die,” the shaman replied. His voice was not quite as authoritative as it had been. “We are intelligent men, and neither of us wants bloodshed. This is true?”

  Orlov stared at him in stony silence.

  “We make a compromise,” the shaman continued. “I do not permit you to execute this man who comes to my village, but I give you permission to punish him. I allow you to use the knout. My people watch you administer this punishment. It shows them the danger of these new ideas he preaches, makes them adhere to the old ways we both value.”

  Orlov was still silent, considering. Pulaski was struggling violently in Vladimir’s grip, eyes glazed with terror. The knout, I suspected, could be worse than death.

  Orlov finally nodded. “I agree,” he said. “I use the knout on him myself. Fifty lashes.”

  The shaman smiled a deprecatory smile, as though they were bartering over a piece of merchandise and Orlov was trying to pull a ruse.

  “No man can survive fifty lashes of the knout,” he said. “This we both know. Thirty will kill most men. You will administer fifteen lashes.”

  “Twenty,” Orlov retorted.

  The wily old priest gave a shrug and spread his palms out to signify defeat at the hands of a superior trader.

 
“Twenty it is,” he agreed.

  “Each one will count,” Orlov promised.

  The peasants were not at all pleased by this compromise, but the death of their comrade had cooled their ardor considerably. Some had already begun to leave the clearing, resuming the blank-eyed, downtrodden mien that was customary. The shaman roared orders to the rest of them, speaking so quickly, so harshly I couldn’t understand what he was saying. The cossacks made no effort to hide their disappointment, scowling darkly as they watched the men disperse.

  Lucie let the sheepskin fall back across the doorway. Vanya released my arm. I rubbed it vigorously, certain there would be an ugly bruise.

  “I am sorry for this,” Vanya said quietly. “I do it for your own good. For you to interfere would have been most dangerous. All is well now. This man is punished and we leave the village as planned.”

  “Are you feeling better, Marietta?” Lucie asked.

  “I’m fine,” I lied.

  The girl seemed completely unaffected by the horror of the scene we had just witnessed, but she was Russian, I told myself, and shattering violence was apparently commonplace in this country, its people immune to it. I had seen a fair amount of violence, too, in my time, but it always left me with this dreadful sick feeling. I moved back over to the chair, shaken, holding on to the back of it to keep from falling.

  “It is best if you go back to your quarters now,” Vanya told Lucie. “One of the men in front will accompany you and stand guard outside of your door until it is time to leave.”

  “I should stay with Marietta. She needs—”

  “I’ll be all right, Lucie,” I said in what I hoped was a fairly normal voice. “I—I just want to rest.”

  The girl left reluctantly, one of the cossacks standing outside the door escorting her across the clearing. Vanya poured another glass of brandy and forced me to drink. It was silent outside. The woman had stopped wailing. There were no voices, no footsteps, no rattle of tools. After a long while I heard the crunch of boots on ice and, a moment later, a heavy pounding noise. They were driving a stake into the ground. Josef Pulaski would be tied to it with his arms over his head. His coat would be ripped off and his naked back exposed and Gregory Orlov himself would wield the treacherous knout, a long-handled whip with a small piece of metal tied into the knot at the tip of the lash.