Katerina turned and walked proudly away and proclaimed, “I am a Cossack through and through and would never, never, even under the penalty of death, reveal any of our secrets. I have never lied to you, my father. What I say is the truth. If you wish to carry out this sentence because I lay with the Russian, then do so, but it is the only thing I’m guilty of. The mating secret of Whitefire is safe; I didn’t divulge it. Be fair and just in your sentencing, Father. Sentence me for what I did, not what you think I did!” she cried brokenly.
Katlof’s expression was cold and indifferent. “No more words! Go in silence!” he shouted harshly.
Dejected and alone, Katerina walked from the hall and headed to the barn and the mares. At least she still had the animals; they still loved her.
* * *
Spring gave way to summer, and the days passed quickly for the villagers, who were busy with the horses and farms. The grasslands sang with activity. Horses could be seen everywhere on the plains, under watchful eyes. The steppe, now dressed in a myriad of full color, was dazzling to the eye. The tall, swaying stalks of wheat, barley, and oats created the illusion of shimmering gold, while the broad stripes of green-leafed and multicolored vegetables painted a dazzling mosaic. This was what Katerina loved about the steppe. It was a place to be proud of, a place in which to feel deeply about the land and her people. When she was not in the barn tending the horses, she rode or walked through this wonderland of color. With no one to talk with, the time to summer’s end was agonizing. Occasionally, when no one was looking, Stepan would slip a note to Katerina, telling her he adored her and was her friend forever. It helped ease the days and her tormented mind. During the day, without someone to talk to, to distract her thoughts, her mind was constantly invaded by Yuri and his promise to come for her. In the darkest hours of the night the Mongol continued to pursue her.
Chapter 5
Katerina looked around the enclosure that held the alabaster mares and smiled slightly. This was the time of day she liked best: the hour before twilight, which cloaked the bustling Don Cossack village of Volin with its velvety mantle of darkness.
The sweet, pungent smell of horseflesh permeated the air as Katerina leaned into the pen. The fillies and colts trotted to the rail fence, vying for the slim girl’s attention. A long-legged colt nuzzled her delicate outstretched hand, looking for an apple. Katerina laughed softly as the young animal’s mother gently nosed him away from the fence. Secure in the knowledge that her offspring was taken care of, the mare swished her tail and tried to pry open Katerina’s hand. “Very well, you may have the apple, but only because you’re so exquisitely beautiful,” she crooned, opening her fingers. The mare took the fruit and held it gently in her mouth as she trotted away in search of the colt.
Katerina settled herself on a trough and tried to shake the uneasiness that had settled between her shoulders. Whatever it was that was disturbing her was having its effect on the mares, for they, too, were skittish, and clustered together in small groups. Perhaps a wild animal has worked its way into the pen, she thought nervously. Any other day, any other time, she would have been able to shake off this peculiar feeling, which was becoming more pronounced. The horses gathered closer still, whinnying softly and pawing nervously at the ground, their thick, lush tails swinging furiously.
Did they sense that tomorrow at the first rays of the sun they would start the journey to their winter quarters? That had to be the reason. What other could there be, she rationalized uneasily.
The catlike hazel eyes narrowed as Katerina strained to look deeper into the enclosure to see if anything, save the mares, moved. “Anything on four legs, that is,” she said quietly to herself. Her voice was a thick, rich purr. The horses became quiet and began to separate. She leaned back again, her eyes scanning the quiet village. This past month her father had avoided her as if she carried some dread disease. There were no more quiet evening talks, no more camaraderie between her father and herself. He was distant and cold. Somehow, before morning she had to make things right between them, before they began the journey to the House of the Kat. Things had to be settled between them before they were quartered together for the winter in the Carpathians.
She shook her head, and the copper-colored curls, free of their pins, tumbled to her shoulders. She brushed them away impatiently to clear her vision. Her body stiffened at an unfamiliar sound, like that of a knife being scraped against new leather. It made her think of her father’s raspy voice when he had sentenced her.
One of the mares kicked up her hind legs and began to circle the pen, snorting and flicking her plumed tail. Papa should be here, he had a sixth sense where the horses were concerned. If something was wrong, he should be told. She knew he was in the barns with the other men, readying the wagons for tomorrow’s journey. She postponed the moment when she would have to go to him and tell him something was wrong. How could she bear to see the hurt and the hostility in his eyes? How could she accept the fact that, in his heart, he thought she had betrayed him? She couldn’t. She had tried, but her tongue became thick and refused to do her bidding. When she tried to explain, tried to convince him that he was wrong, she was not talking to her father but to the Kat, the head of the Don Cossack village. She wasn’t answering to her father but to the chief of the Cossacks.
Katerina blinked, driving the hateful memory from her mind as one of the creamy mares again pranced nervously around the pen, snorting and scraping the dirt in a near frenzy. He should have killed me, she thought bitterly. Anything was better than being ostracized by her own people. With each passing day she felt as if she were dying slowly, inch by inch. Yuri, Yuri, she cried silently. Where are you; why haven’t you come for me as you promised? You said you would return at the end of the summer and take me back to Moscow with you. You said you loved me. Is my father right, did you make love to me so I would tell you the secret of Whitefire? Was it true?
“No!” she screamed as she ran from the mares’ pen down through the dusty road and out to the fields. She ran till there was no breath left in her body. Twice she fell, and twice she staggered to her feet and kept running. She flew from the eyes, from the horses, from the Kat and from her father. She had to keep running and never stop. When Yuri came, and he would come, they would be gone. Back to the Carpathians, where he would never be able to find her.
She fell to the ground and sobbed, great racking tears that shook her slender body. Finally, drying her face, she sat up and looked around. How long had she stayed here? How far had she come? What did it matter? What did anything matter now? There wasn’t one person who cared what she did or where she went. Not anymore. She was alone. If she allowed her father to have his way, she would always be alone. Branded a traitor by every Cossack on the steppe, she could never again take her rightful place in the Don village.
Katerina looked at the minuscule stars overhead and knew she had stayed away too long. It was time to see her father and make one last effort to make him understand. There must be trust between us, she cried silently. Still she didn’t move. Her eyes closed wearily as she lay back on the thick grass.
* * *
The tall reeds were still, their slender shafts straight and supple in the gentle night air. Nothing stirred, save the snakelike movements of the Terek Cossacks as they crawled on their bellies through the shoulder-high stalks. The moment the moon took cover behind approaching storm clouds, the Tereks infiltrated the grasses. Each man crawled with his knife clutched between his teeth. They made no sign, nor did they disturb the graceful lengths of greenery that hid them and kept their presence secret from the Don Cossacks. Each man bore a sense of pride as he crawled. This was the closest any man had ever come to the village of Volin, except for the horse traders and buyers. Gregory Bohacky was right, his timing was incredible. The lonely nights they had ridden to get to the outer perimeters of the village, and then sat sentinel, were finally going to be rewarded. After tonight the village would be no more; the Cosars would belong to the Tereks a
nd then to the highest bidder, Czar Ivan.
Gregory lay still, barely inches from the fences that encircled the compound. Still shielded by the tall grasses, he could hear the men of Volin brawling and shouting boisterously as they consumed jug after jug of vodka. From the sound of the merrymaking, he wagered they had been drinking for days as they prepared for their departure to the Carpathians. He listened for Katlof and smirked when he heard him drunkenly address one of his men. He was the only man to worry about. If the hetman was sodden, the others would be in even worse condition. They would be able to wield a weapon, but not with any accuracy. Gregory knew in his gut that his men could cut down the entire village and be back in their own quarters within a short time.
He cast an anxious eye overhead to see if the threatening storm clouds would continue to give him cover. His long body relaxed in the grass as he pondered his next move.
To his left and standing sentry outside the wall surrounding the compound a guard argued vehemently with a Cossack youth. “Someone has to be alert. What you’re doing is a disgrace to the village. All of you are so drunk you can barely stand. You’re a disgrace to our forefathers.”
“Bah, you talk like an old woman. This is a night for pleasure and celebrating. All the wagons are loaded, the horses have been readied for hours, and the houses will soon be closed for the winter. If the hetman says we can drink, then we can drink,” the young man said drunkenly as he brought a bottle to his lips and drank greedily. “The Kat said to bring you this jug, but since you don’t want it, I’ll drink it myself.” The youth laughed raucously as he toppled from the wall, alcohol spilling over his face.
The guard looked at him and felt only disgust. One of the horses whickered, and his head jerked upright. He knew that sound, he had been hearing it for hours. It didn’t come from an animal, at least not one with four legs. Should he leave his post and report what he thought he knew? And to whom? he asked himself. The Kat was in no condition to hear what he said, let alone make a decision. One other guard stood at his post on the far side of the compound. Should he venture over there and ask him if he, too, had heard the noise and if he realized what it meant? An ominous feeling crept up his spine. No matter what, a Cossack never left his post. There it was again. The soft whicker and then an even softer one in reply. He peered into the velvety darkness and could see nothing. He looked down at the prone young Cossack and cursed long and loud.
A wild whoop was heard; the guard’s hand automatically came up with his sword outstretched in front of him. He was cut down from behind before he could move. Everywhere wild shouts and curses filled the air as men struggled and fought. The Don Cossacks, in their drunken condition, were no match for the trim, hard-fighting Tereks with only one thought in mind: the Cosars!
Katlof reeled drunkenly toward the fire, where his sword rested among the others. His hand reached for his saber; just as his fingers closed over the hilt, he felt a blade strike him across the back between his shoulders. He dropped to his knees. As he cried out to his people, “Run! Hide!” blood gushed from his mouth.
Women and children fell beneath the savage onslaught, the Tereks merciless in their attack. Katlof watched in horror as a small child crawled away from his dead mother’s arms toward the fire. He reached out a hand as a wild-eyed Terek scooped up the child and tossed him into the roaring inferno. He died with the child’s agonized screams ringing in his ears. It was over in a matter of moments.
Gregory stood near the fire on top of one of the loaded wagons, his arm held high above his head in a show of victory. A wild cry rang out as the men reached to pull their leader to the ground. “Ready the horses and burn these wagons after you confiscate the supplies. We can use them ourselves. And don’t forget the vodka, we’ll do our own celebrating when we return to camp. We did what no Russian has been able to do!” he shouted arrogantly. “We now own the Cosars. Czar Ivan will be proud of us!” A lusty shout of approval rang through the blood-soaked night.
“Are they all dead?” one of Gregory’s men shouted.
“Every last bitch and bastard!” came a hoarse shout in reply.
Gregory smiled to himself as the moon slid behind its hiding place, storm clouds moving on. With a wicked flourish of his sword and a wild cry of victory, Gregory spurred the horse beneath him, his men thundering behind him as they rode victoriously from Volin.
When Gregory Bohacky turned his head, those mounted behind glimpsed his heavily greased mustache. No one ever joked about the corkscrew curl at each end, as Gregory’s mustache was his manhood, his pride and joy. Many words were spoken about it in jest behind his back, where he would never overhear, but nobody ever uttered a demeaning word to his face. To his face, only words of adoration or praise, if one valued one’s head.
The pale moonlight silhouetted the hard outline of his profile as he looked over his shoulder. A sheepskin hat sat on top of his black, curly hair, which circled his chiseled face, emphasizing the small, shrewd blue eyes set upon high-boned cheeks that were separated by a large, aquiline nose. The one redeeming feature that made him attractive to women was his full, sensuous mouth and the voice within. His commands held an authoritative manner, leaving no doubt that he meant what he said. But when he wooed the lovelies of his choice, his resonant voice was a choir singing the Gregorian chants, compelling and hypnotizing, so soothing that surrender was a gift of thanks, gladly and freely given to him. Gregory Bohacky, a warrior among warriors, a man among men, was so respected by those under him that he inspired complete obedience.
Gregory twisted in the saddle, raising his hand upward, signaling his men to stop. “The hour grows late and soon our village will be in view. Our families will be asleep, but tonight when we arrive, the thunder of the Cosar hooves, along with our cries of joy, will awaken everyone. Tonight our mir will ring with joy, music, and dancing, and the vodka will flow like the Dnieper. Tonight we’ll celebrate our victory and conquest, stopping only when we all fall unconscious. We have done what others only dreamed of doing—we captured the Cosars from the Don Cossacks!” A loud roar of approval boomed from the warriors, almost stampeding the horses.
“Keep those beauties calm and quiet, my brothers, we mustn’t lose them now. As happy as I am, I’ll behead any man who lets one horse escape!”
The threat of the Don Cossacks coming after them was as nonexistent as the lives of the people of Volin. Secure in this knowledge, the Tereks broke into a Cossack song of victory, their voices filling the night air with a melody of joy.
Gregory, at the water’s edge of the Dnieper, reined in his horse and instructed his men, “As we cross the river, carefully lead the Cosars through the rocks, for lame horses are of no value to anyone. When we are once again on our island of Khortitsa, I’ll personally check the animals, and someone will pay with his life if one lame Cosar is found.”
Restraining his stallion, Gregory waited on the bank as the Cossacks led the horses through the shallow waters. He smiled to himself as he watched. Never had he seen his rough men handle anything or anyone as gently as they handled the Cosars; not even their women were afforded such tenderness. The mothers of the village would mock us forever if they witnessed this scene, he thought.
As they left the banks of the Dnieper behind, the faint outline of their huts came into view. Gregory felt a warm glow sweep over him; it was good to be home. Returning this time was that much sweeter, for he would be proclaimed a hero. The gutting of Volin and his victorious capture of the horses would have the mir celebrating for days, and the men would talk of his exploits for years after his death. Gregory Bohacky would be a folk hero in Russian history, and the Tereks would sing his praises across the vast, endless steppe of the Ukraine. He trembled as he envisioned his welcome from the moment his stallion’s hoof first crossed the village entrance. The anticipation telegraphed itself to his legs as he dug his heels into the animal’s flanks, driving him into a full canter. His men sensed his eagerness and rode rapidly behind him, the Cosars driven alo
ng with them.
A guard hidden from view called out, “Is that you, comrade Bohacky? If it is, show yourself.”
Stepping forward into the light of a blazing campfire, Gregory answered, “Yes, comrade, it is Bohacky.”
“What do you bring with you? I see many black objects in the distance,” remarked the guard as he stepped from behind the high wooden wall that surrounded the camp.
“Those black objects you see in the darkness are white objects, and those white objects are the famous Cosar horses. The whole lot of them from the village of Volin!”
“You joke, Gregory! It can’t be. The Cosars belong to the Don Cossacks. They would never let them go.”
“They didn’t let them go, comrade, we captured them!”
“But the Don Cossacks? I don’t understand, you must be making jokes!”
“Comrade, I never make jokes. The Cosars now belong to the Tereks. The Don Cossacks of Volin are no more! We killed every last one of them. No one will come chasing after us for the horses; we saw to that!”
The guard shook his head in disbelief.
“Are our people asleep?” asked Gregory.
“All is quiet. With only four hours before dawn, the warm beds hold fast our people.”
“Comrade, wake them from their sleep and tell, no, shout the good news! Tell them Gregory Bohacky has returned triumphant from Volin with the Cosars! Tonight we begin the celebration. Wake the women and have them prepare food for the victory feast. Wake everyone and tell them!”
“Yes, comrade!”
“Then why are you standing here looking at me? Wake everyone. We’ll drive the Cosars through the village to help you. Move, comrade!” he shouted.
The guard mounted his horse, galloping down the roads, shouting as he went, “Wake up, wake up, Gregory Bohacky has returned from Volin with the Cosars! Wake up, wake up! The Cosars are here! Tonight we celebrate!”
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