“Oh, la, child, you and Prince Alexei can both be very tedious with your libertarian pretensions! For your information, it is dangerous to support the Constitutionalists if that support includes large contributions of gold and the foreign purchase of arms.”
“Prince Alexei did this?” Katia could not help smiling. She was thrilled by the romantic news.
“It is belowstairs gossip and nothing to be smiling at, my girl. The dressmaker says Alexei Stephanovich is in danger as long as he remains in Russia.”
“Well,” declared Katia, still smiling mischievously, “I intend to ask him myself, and get the truth from his lips.”
Something in Katia’s tone must have alerted Nikki because she looked hard at Katia and spoke sternly. “Mind you don’t, you impudent girl! And don’t be so sure he’ll come to visit you. He was not here yesterday, though he came three times the day before.” She gathered up her sewing. “I’ll go down to see about your supper now. Until I return, you must rest.”
As Natasha Filippovna turned to go, Katia thought of something she had wondered about earlier. “Before you leave, Aunt, tell me of Prince Oleg’s mother. Is she, like the others, dead?”
Her aunt was clearly disconcerted by the unexpected question and took some time to answer it.
“She is.”
“How did it happen?”
“Why do you ask so many questions, child?” Natasha Filippovna was rapidly folding her handwork, making no attempt to hide her irritation.
“I ask questions because I know so little,” said Katia simply.
“Well, all you need to know, young lady, is that one day my mistress, Princess Anna, walked away from her husband and her son and was never seen again. That’s all there is to know. It’s all anyone knows. Prince Ivan held a massive search for her and offered huge rewards. He got the Patriarch to open all the convents and allow their premises to be searched. He even had the Neva dragged for her body. But she was never found.” Natasha Filippovna crossed herself.
“How horrible!” whispered Katia. “She must have been so unhappy. But are you sure she’s dead?”
“Of course she is! Why do you plague me with your fancies?” Nikki flounced off in a bad temper, giving Katia no further opportunity for questions.
The girl’s mind was full of the romantic story of the Romanovs. Hardly conscious of her aches and pains, she lay back and closed her eyes. ‘I will think about what Aunt Nikki told me while I wait for Prince Alexei. Surely he will come today.’
But he did not.
Chapter Eight
Though he did not visit Katia’s sickroom again, she was frequently a disturbing presence in Alexei Romanov’s mind. The morning before their scheduled departure for St. Petersburg, he stepped into the courtyard just after dawn and strode to the makeshift stable at the far end of the courtyard. So involved was he in his own thoughts that he did not notice the charred reminders of the recent fire: the litter of blackened timbers, the piles of refuse. He was not in a pleasant humour. A number of factors contributed to his irritability, not the least of which was the beautiful convent girl recuperating in one of the rooms above him. He had spent a sleepless night. Or rather, when he had slept his dreams had been as disturbing as an adolescent’s. Katia’s face and figure had appeared and reappeared throughout the night and despite his efforts to exorcize her presence he could not forget her. When the white winter morning brightened the world, driving away sleep and dreams, thoughts of her still haunted him.
He went into the converted storage shed and found the stablemen and boys already hard at their work. Prince Oleg was a strict taskmaster and there was no idling about when he was in residence in the country manor. The stablemen dipped their caps to Alexei respectfully, but he didn’t notice. Katia still occupied his thoughts.
Why, he wondered? She was beautiful, of course.
But he had known many beautiful women and been unimpressed. Certainly they had not dominated his dreams, though many had entertained him for a night or two. And it could hardly be her mind that enchanted him. Though he liked her outspokenness, her innocent honesty, their conversation had been so slight as to tell him nothing of the inner workings of her mind. Unlike most of the men of his acquaintance, Alexei appreciated women who cared enough about their world to have opinions. Nothing bored him so much as the elegantly tedious ladies of society who were repeatedly foisted upon him by eager mamas and papas at the least opportunity. All his adult life, Alexei had sought women who combined both beauty and intelligence. And spirit. Surely, he had told himself innumerable times, Katia—so young and inexperienced—could not be as charmingly forthright as she had appeared during their one meeting. He smiled to himself, remembering the way Katiana had bitten down on Natasha Filippovna’s fingers as she forced the potion into her mouth two mornings earlier. He had not visited her room since then. But the memory of her refusal to be sedated and of her wan loveliness, the languid depths of her azure eyes, filled all his thoughts. The question recurred: why? As he stroked and calmed Alladin that morning, he found himself half angry, half amused by the emotions he felt.
His thoughts were interrupted by Prince Oleg’s voice near him.
“Your stallion seems well enough despite the fire.” The tone of voice was regretful, as if Oleg would have enjoyed the smell of burning horseflesh if the animal belonged to his hated cousin.
“A little excitable still, I fear,” said Alexei without turning. Alladin’s muscled flank rippled beneath his hand.
“Then you will be leaving us?” Oleg’s voice was smiling. “Soon?”
“Jake and I may ride some distance with you tomorrow.” Alexei reached for the handsome brass bit hanging on the wall and gentled it into Alladin’s mouth.
“Ah, yes, Jake. The silent Jake. My man, Leo, tells me he did not sleep in his quarters last night.”
Alladin nickered as Alexei slipped the leather bridle over his huge head. The intelligent dark eyes flashed with the anticipation of a ride.
Oleg continued. “As I am master here, I like to know the whereabouts of my guests. And my guest’s servants. If that black demon is bedding one of my serving wenches…”
Alexei laughed and faced his cousin for the first time that morning. His voice scarcely concealed the loathing he felt. “Jake has no interest in our lily-skinned Russian peasants. Cousin. Have no fear of that. And, if you must know, he has gone to Three Rivers for me. I expect him back today.”
“May I ask the purpose of his visit?”
Alexei laughed again. “You may not.”
For an instant the two men eyed each other, and the air in the stable seemed ominous with their animosity. A stable boy who was nearby apportioning oats moved away not wishing to be too near his master when he was angry.
Now it was Oleg’s turn to laugh. The sound was bitter and goading. He leaned against the stable wall and folded his arms across his chest.
“Tell me: What makes you so certain of your superiority, Alexei Stephanovich? Does not the blood of whores run in your veins as it does in mine?”
Alexei’s hand went to the leather handled knife he wore at his belt. His body tensed. “Watch what you say, Cousin. You are free to insult me, but I would kill the man who defames my mother.”
Only a fool would doubt Alexei’s words. Oleg shrugged in mock apology. “Of course you would. I would expect nothing less from so superior a gentleman as yourself, cher cousin. Our mothers were sisters, but perhaps my own was the only harlot in the family.”
Alexei’s hand had not moved from his knife. “Your mother was my aunt and I remember loving her dearly. She was a gentle good woman who did not deserve the husband and son she got.”
Oleg spat into the dirty straw at his feet.
Alexei’s handsome face mirrored the loathing he felt at that moment. “I do not wonder that Anna Romanov preferred the icy Neva to life with you and your father. I only wish it were you who had drowned that day.” Alexei returned to caring for Alladin then turned back
to his cousin who was still lounged against the wall insolently. “Your father made her life a hell on earth, Oleg. It was he who deserved to die and not she.”
Oleg’s reply was spiteful, almost waspish. “You! You’re like the rest! You pity the sainted Romanov princess who destroyed herself rather than endure the attentions of her husband. But I know better!” Oleg’s eyes glinted in the dimly lit stable, and it occurred to Alexei for one moment that his cousin might be a little mad. “She didn’t die that night. She hid somewhere; and when my father was publicly humiliated by her apparent death, she laughed at him and me.”
Alexei shook his head in disbelief. It was incredible, but Oleg still believed the old story, forgotten now by almost everyone, that his mother, Princess Anna, had been seen by a znakhara, a wandering witch-woman. Alexei himself could remember only snatches of the story. The znakhara had come to the Palace Romanov a few days after the princess’ disappearance, and demanded entry and a word with Prince Ivan. For some reason she had been granted her request. The story she told the Prince was that Anna Romanov still lived, that she would in fact outlive him and even his son, the child, Oleg. The tale had enraged Prince Ivan, and he had ordered the woman to be blinded and banished from St. Petersburg. But the story she told lingered in his mind; and, with the passage of time, he came to believe it. With the aid of Czar Paul’s authority he had searched the city of St. Petersburg: its palaces and schools and convents, the tormented hovels of the poor. But Princess Anna was never found, and still he would not believe her dead. He died believing that she lived somewhere, cuckolding him, laughing at his vain attempts to find her. Prince Oleg had inherited his father’s conviction. Alexei knew that on more than one occasion when drink had loosened his tongue, Oleg had announced to anyone who would listen that if he ever found his mother he would make her suffer for the pain and humiliation she had brought upon the house of Romanov.
Had Oleg been less villainous Alexei might have pitied him this obsession. Instead he could only shake his head in disbelief. “Your hatred is a madness that has poisoned your mind, Oleg Ivanovich. I almost pity you.” Alexei tugged once on Alladin’s reins, and the horse turned to follow his master from the stable.
Furious at being ignored, Oleg cried after him, “You dare to pity me, Alexei? You who will die one day beneath the sword of our Czar’s executioner? You scum who would destroy Russia, you dare to pity me?” Oleg grabbed for a whip on the wall beside him. He raised it high, and the leather snapped just inches from Alexei’s ear. Alladin snorted and kicked out, sending dirt and straw into the air.
Alexei wheeled to face Oleg who still held the whip menacingly. “You heard me wrong, Cousin. I said I almost pity you.” Moving without warning, he wrenched the whip from Prince Oleg’s hands and threw it aside. The cousins stared at one another. “If you think you hate me, you should know that what you feel is nothing as compared to the loathing I have for you and for all your kind.” He kicked at the whip on the ground. “Don’t threaten me again, Oleg, or you will find you’ve met your match.”
Moments later as he rode along the snowy path into the manor parkland, Alexei could still feel the fury that had made him almost lose control. The whip had been in his hand. He could have killed Oleg with its lashes, and he knew that somehow the peasants and servants who hated their master for his harsh cruelty and exploitation would have contrived to shield him from prosecution. But Alexei had no taste for murder. He had shed the blood of many men before, but had not relished the experience, no matter how deserving the victim. And something—perhaps it was family loyalty or the memory of his sweet-tempered aunt, Princess Anna—made killing Oleg the most impossible of deeds. They were linked as close as cousins could be; to kill him would be akin to fratricide.
In the parkland, the frozen morning air was exhilarating, cleansing. Man and beast made their way slowly. Alladin taking care on the scarcely cleared path; Alexei enjoying the purifying cold. His thoughts returned to Katia, and he felt concern for her in the company of Prince Oleg. But Natasha Filippovna had assured him that their stay in the palace Romanov would be a short one. A house was being prepared for them, she had said; and this eased Alexei’s concern somewhat. He knew that a prolonged stay in the Romanov Palace in St. Petersburg would not be safe for Katia. If Oleg could not corrupt her with gifts and promises, he felt sure Princess Elizabeth would find some way of making the younger woman miserable. Alexei recalled his last visit to the palace in St. Petersburg. There had been a scent of corruption about the place that contrasted painfully with his early childhood memories when his mother and her sister had been a laughing presence in every room except those of Prince Ivan. After the last visit, he had sworn never to return, and he had kept his word to himself. He was certain that Katiana Danova could not be happy in such a place.
These thoughts and others like them came to an abrupt end when he reached his destination: an abandoned stone hovel once used by the manor woodcutters. Black Jake was waiting there as he had expected. They had arranged this meeting far from the eyes and ears of Prince Oleg’s spies before Jake’s departure for Three Rivers. Alexei dismounted and the men grasped hands with genuine affection.
“Was there word?” Alexei asked.
Black Jake nodded curtly and withdrew a sealed letter from his sheepskin coat. Alexei broke the seal and read quickly. When he was done he drew from his pocket a small silver box containing sulphur-tipped pieces of metal. He struck the end of one against the rough edge of the box and the sulphur flared immediately. Without speaking he set the letter afire and let the ashes fall into the snow at his feet.
When the letter was destroyed, he replaced the match box in his coat. Only then did he speak.
“We are wanted by the Czar! Both of us. I am accused of fomenting revolution and you are implicated with me. The Czar has convened a high court of inquiry with himself at the head and has sworn to uncover and destroy any and all persons who threaten the security of the realm.”
It was not necessary to explain the rest. Alexei knew that Black Jake cared little for the complications of the white man’s politics. His loyalty was for one man only, the man who had saved his life in a far-off country years before. For Jake this was all that mattered.
“We will ride tomorrow with my cousin until we find the south road. Then we will go on alone.”
Jake nodded his head briefly, his expression, as always, unreadable to all but Alexei. Then, without a word, the two men mounted their horses and turned their heads toward the manor.
Alexei wondered if Jake could guess the only reason why they would be riding out with the sleigh-train. Did he know that his master and friend craved one last look at Katiana Danova? The news contained in the letter should have been enough to make Alexei turn south immediately rather than risk a few more hours in the company of his cousin. He knew it would give Oleg the greatest pleasure to bring his cousin in, tied at the hands like a common criminal; and apprehending a suspected traitor would be certain to win Oleg favor in the Czar’s eyes. Yes, it was dangerous to spend another hour in Oleg’s company; nevertheless, Alexei assured himself that he had the advantage in both time and information.
Oleg would not know for another day or perhaps two that there had been a revolutionary uprising in St. Petersburg. The letter brought by Jake was from the rebel leader Pavel Pestel, and the story it told was not pretty. Immediately upon accepting the crown which his brother Constantine in Poland had refused, the new Czar, Nicholas, had sworn to defend Russia at any cost; and in less than twenty-four hours he proved his word by ordering the Preobrazhenski Regiment to fire upon a crowd of rebellious citizens crying for Constantine and Constitution.
Alexei shuddered. It was not difficult for him to imagine the horror of the scene in Senate Square. Apart from Pavel Pestel and a handful of others, the revolutionaries were an untested idealistic lot whom he admired for their conviction while he could not help despising their political naiveté. Fifty years before, Catherine the Great had played with t
he idea of a constitutional government for Russia. She had many times entertained the French libertarian Voltaire, and there had been some talk that they might work together to devise such a document for Russia. But that was long ago. The scheme was recalled only by idealists and scholars and there were few of those in Russia now.
Alexei sighed. The mutineers in Senate Square were fools to expect anything but massacre at the hands of Catherine’s grandson. Like his father, Czar Paul, Nicholas was known to be morbidly fearful of anything that threatened the security of Russia’s powerful nobility.
Pavel Pestel’s letter told how, on December 15,1825, Czar Nicholas had ordered his soldiers to fire into the liberty-hungry crowd in Senate Square. When their guns were silent at last, the snowy streets were littered with the blood and gore of men, women and children, shot dead by a battery of Imperial guns for the crime of wanting to be free.
Chapter Nine
The dawn was slate-colored, and a persistent low wind carried ice on its breath the day they left for St. Petersburg. The outside staircase was slippery so Katia descended slowly. Her body felt brand new and scarcely capable of what it had so easily accomplished a week before. Half-way down she stopped to rest, pretending a lively interest in the damage done by the recent fire. Even through her new clothes, the wind bit angrily. The day was waking with an angry disposition, she thought. A wave of uneasy premonition passed through Katia, and she wished for the passage to St. Petersburg to be over.
Her eyes quickly scanned the blackened remains of a kitchen, the stable and granary. On the west wing, she saw raw new patches of timber and masonry where the damage had been most severe and required immediate attention. The peasants would wait until spring to construct new buildings and reroof the old.
Prince Oleg appeared at the foot of the stairway, his gloved hand outstretched. “Take care, my dear. The stones are icy this morning.”
The Frost And The Flame Page 7