Around the corner of the bulkhead, he confronted Collins—his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, a cat-o-nine clenched in his beefy paw. The man’s black servant was on his knees on the deck. Just faintly—under the noise of wind and water—Alexei heard the strange animal noises the black man made.
“What’s happened here?” Alexei demanded.
“This don’t concern you, sir,” Collins replied hastily.
“It’s just some business between an English gentleman and his servant.” Collins held his arm out like a lance as if to ward off Alexei’s intrusion. He made no effort to hide the cat-o-nine. “These blackbirds need a lesson taught them. I have a right to make him…”
“You have no rights at all aboard my ship, sir!” said Alexei. He could see the ribbons of fresh blood across the black man’s back. He knelt beside the aborigine, heedless of Collins’ weapon and aggressive manner. He pulled the man’s head up and was horrified by what he saw. The servant’s saffron-whited eyes were round with pain; from his open mouth streamed a torrent of scarlet. Half the man’s tongue was gone.
“Son of a whore,” cried Alexei, leaping up and throwing Collins against the bulkhead. He held him there though the man jerked and squirmed.
“He asked for it,” Collins burbled somehow, his own eyes now wide with fear. “These devils lie and cheat. He would have murdered me in my bed if I hadn’t taught him…”
Alexei heard none of it. His fist slammed into the man’s gut once, then again and again and again, propelled by all the pent-up anger and disgust he had felt since making the Englishman’s acquaintance. When Collins went limp, Alexei jerked him by the open collar of his shirt and dragged him toward the ship’s railing. The two men were washed by a wave of spray as the Southern Star slipped into an ocean trough. Alexei slipped on the wet deck but his hold on Collins remained firm. He held him over the rail backwards as Collins fought to break free.
Looking back, Alexei could not be sure whether he had actually intended to murder Collins at that moment or if he had meant only to terrify him into idiocy. Whatever his decision, the black man took the moment from him. In one startling feral movement, he rose from the bloody deck, his mouth still streaming blood, and lunged at his master, pushing Alexei aside as he did so. It was over in a second. Collins’ voice was a wail in harmony with wind and wave as he fell into the black sea.
The terrible deed done, the native stood still before Alexei, his palms raised slightly as if to indicate his submission.
“Look at me,” commanded Alexei.
Illuminated by a lantern, the man’s face glistened blue-black. Alexei could not guess at his age for though his skin was lined, he moved with the agility of a young man trained for quickness and surprise. But as to his rank among his own people, Alexei had no doubt. The black aborigine held himself erect and tall, like a chief; and he met the white master’s eyes boldly and without fear for whatever lay ahead.
“Can you speak at all?”
The aborigine shook his head. By gesture, he indicated to Alexei that Collins had cut out his tongue and thrown it overboard. He pointed to the deck. There was the knife Collins had used; the blood on the blade was fresh.
“Mother of God,” Alexei muttered. Collins had deserved this death! He looked at the native who was staring at him as an equal might, unimpressed by either his whiteness or his royalty. “You don’t fear me? That’s good. I don’t know how we’ll explain this, but we’ll find a way. In the meantime, you have nothing to fear. Collins was a brute and I might have killed him myself.”
There was another long pause as the men stared at one another, each calculating the other’s character, weighing the advantages between them. “Come below. I’ll call the ship’s doctor. He can be trusted. For now, you are my man. I will call you Jake, and you will work for me. You will find that not all white men are beasts like that one.” Alexei gestured toward the sea. “And I make you this promise: I will return you to your own people. You have my word on it.” Alexei stretched out his hand and after an instant of hesitation, Jake grasped it firmly.
Over the years, Black Jake had proved himself a skilled and trustworthy bodyguard; and, in time, a true comrade as well. A complicated sign language had evolved with their friendship; and sometimes their minds worked in such close harmony that even this was unnecessary. Alexei never again mentioned his promise: nevertheless, he had not forgotten it nor, he knew, had Jake. One day they would return to Van Diemen’s Land.
As he and Jake rode south with the gypsies, Alexei thought of these things. He knew that logic directed him toward England now that he was wanted for treason in his own land. From England he and Jake could sail for Australia and, on the way, a stop in Hobart Town would see his promise kept. Alexei tried to feel enthusiasm for the change, the distraction of a long voyage on the Southern Star. Instead, he found his thoughts returning to Katia.
What would happen to her with only an addlepated aunt to shield her from the world’s temptations and harsh realities? If he left Russia it meant he would be absent for some time. Eighteen months or two years. Much could happen in that length of time. Czar Nicholas was new to the Imperial throne, and his military dignity had been offended by the impassioned zeal of the Constitutionalists. But Alexei knew his own worth to the Crown as an unofficial liaison between the governing heads of two great empires. His Imperial Majesty would need him one day just as Czar Alexander had, and then Alexei knew he could return to Russia without fear of retribution.
All this would take time, however. And what would happen to Katia’s bright spirit in a year, in two? Who would be her protector?
The gypsy caravan was wending slowly along a dirt track between two freshly cultivated fields. The smell of damp earth pricked Alexei’s nostrils. Suddenly, he reigned in Alladin.
Who would protect Katia?
A pale sun peered down through high trails of vapour, and Alexei squinted up at it as if the answer to his questions might be found in the heavens. Then he looked back behind him, along the road they had recently travelled.
He gave his head a shake, laughed shortly to himself, and pulled his cloak more securely around his shoulders. He was smiling when he called out his thanks to the gypsies and threw a purse of gold coins into their midst. He was humming a ballad as he turned Alladin toward the north and St. Petersburg. Beside him, stoic and silent, rode Black Jake.
Chapter Thirteen
Almost two months had passed since Katia’s arrival in St. Petersburg. For most of that period. Dr. Lombard, Prince Oleg’s personal physician, had insisted that she have bed rest and total quiet. For a long time, she lay in the big mahogany bed in her room in the palace gazing up at the yellow velvet canopy and thought about Prince Alexei. After many weeks she still thought about him more than she really wanted to; but now she was healthy again, and she had her lessons—drawing, French, music, deportment, dancing—to occupy her mind, and they were some relief. Nevertheless, there were days when she felt the tears smarting in her eyes as she remembered how Alexei looked the last time they were together. She knew now that she had been selfish and ignorant in wanting him to stay with her and risk the Czar’s anger.
She blushed recalling her naïveté. Aunt Nikki had told her what she knew of the Czar’s board of inquiry into the Decembrist Revolt; but the news had been sparse and rumors more than normally unreliable until the convictions and sentencing of Pavel Pestel, Prince Trubetskoy and many others to hard labor in Siberia. Katia wept when her aunt told how Prince Trubetskoy and his wife had held hands as they walked out of St. Petersburg into exile in Siberia with their ankles chained.
‘I would have been willing to go with Alexei,’ she thought. ‘I would gladly have gone with him to the end of the earth.’
Now the inquiry into the Decembrist Revolt seemed to have ended, however; and Katia wondered if this meant Alexei had been exonerated. Then she reminded herself that it did not much matter because the prince was far away by now. Wherever he was, it might be years be
fore he knew it was safe to return to Russia. By that time, he would surely have forgotten her.
Meanwhile, Prince Oleg’s kindness to her, to her aunt, and to Mary, the child from St. Olaf's, was apparently boundless.
Aunt Nikki had been given a room overlooking the courtyard, connected to Katia’s by an exquisitely appointed sitting room. A little down the hall was Mary’s room, the nursery.
When she thought of Mary, Katia’s heart warmed and she forgot even Alexei for a moment. The little girl grew dearer to her each day despite her persistent silence and apparent inability to show any emotion. More than lessons and amusements, it was this child who had enlivened Katia’s spirits after the dreadful journey to St. Petersburg. During their long hours together Katia had invented fanciful tales to entertain the child and in the hope of bringing a smile to her lips, a blush of childish merriment to the fair cheeks. They took long walks together in the palace park and Katia pointed to the flowers and plants she knew by name—many-colored tulips and brash yellow daffodils, the hundreds of rosebushes that brought forth brilliant red shoots with the first warm days. Her every thought was for Mary and her troubled spirit that seemed permanently clouded by the horror of that night in St. Olaf's. But despite every effort, the child showed no response. Something in her seemed as dead as the parkland before the coming of spring. Yet, like those gardens which had leapt into bloom with the season’s change, Katia never ceased believing that a vibrant spirit rested within Mary, only waiting for the right moment to blossom.
During the first weeks following Dr. Lombard’s announcement of Katia’s complete recovery. Prince Oleg had acted the perfect host. With Natasha Filippovna as chaperone, Katia had enjoyed several rides through the Imperial City with the prince as guide. Whatever nervousness she had felt in his presence almost disappeared on these pleasant excursions. It was even possible for her to forget Alexei and the horror of St. Olaf s in the company of a prince who appeared to be a perfect Russian gentleman.
As the plumed and panoplied horses drew their ornate open carriage through the busy streets, the prince was greeted effusively by dozens of handsome men and women in carriages almost as fine as his. From time to time, they paused in the road long enough for Prince Oleg to exchange a few words with one or another of these dignitaries. At such times Katia was always uncomfortably aware of the curious stares she received. Though she could not help feeling proud to be in the company of so important a noble as Prince Oleg Ivanovich Romanov, she was disturbed by the bold appreciation she read in the men’s frank stares. Despite her fondness for the European-styled clothes the prince had ordered made for her, she sometimes yearned for the disguising simplicity of the orthodox wardrobe, the bulky kaftans and sarafans the Troitza nuns had provided her when she left the convent.
Nevertheless, those rides in early summer had been great entertainment for a young woman who had hungered after the world for almost all of her eighteen years. She recalled one in particular.
They had gone in the morning to watch Czar Nicholas review his troops in the St. Petersburg parade grounds; and on the way, as he pointed out the sights and attractions of the Imperial City, Prince Oleg had detailed the history of the metropolis. Katia, eager for sights and sounds and learning after her long confinement, was a rapt student.
“The great Czar Peter built the city in 1712,” he told her. “This was all bleak and barren in those days, Katia. Just a handful of swampy islands in the Neva River.”
“What made him choose such a place for the new capital?” she asked, imagining the dismal scene though the elegant city around her gave no hint of these inauspicious beginnings. As she turned her head from side to side, the sunlight flashed in the auburn and gold highlights of her hair and touched her fair cheeks with an attractive natural blush.
“The Neva is a great river, perfect for commerce,” replied the Prince. “But primarily, the city was built here because it was an ideal site for a modern capital that would prove to Europe that Russia was not a land of barbarians as most people then supposed it to be. You’ve been through Moscow, Katia, my dear. You know what a ramshackle place it is with all those shabby wooden buildings and the ring of monastaries and convents encircling it. Compare Moscow to St. Petersburg and you see the difference between the old and the modern Russia. You might call St. Petersburg the gateway to the West and the future.”
That day as the early summer sun warmed them, Prince Oleg pointed with obvious pride to the magnificent Fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul, to the countless marmoreal palaces and public buildings designed in the Neo-Classical and Russian Baroque styles. Katia could hardly take it all in; she had the impression of mighty marble columns, thousands of arched windows and flawless white statuary. He showed her handsome vessels riding at anchor in the Neva, their masts bright with flags and banners, the pavilions and colleges, the huge public squares adazzle with fountains and gardens, the Winter Palace of the Czar painted a turquoise that rivaled the hue of the sky. The sites were breathtaking to Katia. Beside St. Petersburg, Moscow was indeed a wretched place. This city glowed golden in the sunlight, and the dozens of canals that meandered beside the broad streets reflected back this glory with a kind of shimmering praise.
They passed the Bolshoi Theatre and Prince Oleg promised to be her escort at a performance soon. “You have seen nothing until you have experienced our ballet, my dear. Europe has nothing to compare with it.” He smiled at her, completely ignoring Natasha Filippovna. “However, I fear that on whatever night we attend, your beauty will outshine even the spectacle on stage.” He leaned across and patted Katia’s knee with his gloved hand.
Katia shrank inwardly and shifted her position. It seemed in that instant that a brisk northern wind arose and chilled her to the marrow. Though the feeling quickly disappeared as other sights caught her attention, she could not forget the feel of Oleg Romanov’s hand through her voile skirt. Her blithe mood disappeared as if a black cloud had invaded the day’s blue sky and shaded everything with the promise of dark times to come.
As they drove along the Nevsky Prospect, the most important street in St. Petersburg, Prince Oleg pointed to the gigantic slide constructed in the middle of the road.
“During the winter,” he told her, “there is gala sledding when the snow and ice are deep. Everyone enjoys this; even the wives of ambassadors have been known to take a ride.”
The slide was many stories high, wide and long. Like a child, the thought of winter sledding appealed to Katia and—happy again for the moment—she clapped her hands together in innocent anticipation. “And may I do it too? Sledding was forbidden at Troitza!”
“Of course you may, my dear. You may do whatever gives you pleasure while you are my guest. It is my greatest wish that you be happy.” His pale blue eyes bore into her and she lowered her gaze.
Natasha Filippovna interrupted hastily. “But, of course, our house will be completed long before the winter is here, Your Highness. My solicitor informs me…”
Oleg waved away her interruption with an irritated flip of his gloved hand. “I would not be too eager, Natasha Filippovna. Construction on new buildings goes slowly just now. It may be spring before your little house is ready for occupancy.” The prince smiled warmly at Katia. “You are not so eager to leave me, are you little Katia? You are not unhappy in the Romanov Palace, I hope.”
“Your kindness, your hospitality, has been marvelous, Your Highness,” said Katia quickly, wondering why her words felt like lies when—in fact—the prince had been gracious and generous beyond all expectations. She had new clothes, fine foods, tutors; he had treated her as a princess though a few months before they had been strangers to one another. Perhaps it was this excessiveness that worried her. Though she knew nothing of the world, she sensed danger in such bountiful giving without apparent motive. For the rest of that morning, she was distracted from the sights and entertainments of their ride, her mind dwelling on the uncertainty of her position.
One morning a few weeks af
ter this, as a maid helped her dress in a delicate deep-necked morning frock of embroidered cotton in an ivory shade, Katia thought back on all Prince Oleg’s generosity. She tried to brush the thoughts aside, however, for they made her uneasy. She did not like so great an indebtedness to a man high above her in social station. Especially one with such an unpredictable nature as Prince Oleg’s. She accused herself repeatedly of ingratitude, but she could not dismiss the disturbing certainty that Oleg Ivanovich was a man to be feared. When Alexei had warned her against trusting, had he been speaking of his cousin specifically?
‘Perhaps Prince Oleg has forgotten about me,’ she hoped without conviction as she stared at her image in the looking glass, and the maid dressed her hair in a simple schoolgirl twist and curls. The Prince had not been to see her for two weeks, and for this she was thankful. There had been too much violence between herself and Oleg; blood and death were the ties that bound them together. From these no good could possibly come, she told herself.
When the maid had finished helping her dress, Katia was thankful for a few moments of solitude before her lessons for the day began. Something—she wasn’t sure what—was troubling her mind and making her restless. She thought of Princess Elizabeth, Prince Oleg’s wife. On the few occasions when they had spoken, the princess’s manner had been one of polite concern for Katia’s health and that of Mary. Nevertheless, she had done nothing to ease Katia’s insecurity. Rather, something in her- cool appraising eyes had brought an uncomfortable flush to Katia’s cheeks. Though she appeared a perfect Russian aristocrat, Katia knew without knowing how she knew, that in her own way, Elizabeth Romanov was as much to be feared as her husband.
She went to one of the large double windows that faced from her room across the palace park to the broad blue sweep of the River Neva. The meticulously maintained gardens were bright with a dozen brilliant summer hues; the sky was turquoise with only an occasional whisper of cloud for contrast.
The Frost And The Flame Page 11