When Love Commands

by Jennifer Wilde

  Vanya seemed to read my thoughts. “Is best not to think of it, Marietta,” he said gently. “This man is evil. He stirs the people to rebellion. He and his kind burn the posthouses, cause much trouble.”

  “He—he mentioned a man named Pugachev.”

  Vanya nodded. “This man is their leader. He attempts to raise an army to destroy all aristocrats, to take Catherine’s throne. Russia is full of such madmen. Pugachev will soon be captured, soon be put down. The Imperial Army is very strong. They soon find his secret camp. You sit now. You rest. Vanya watches over you.”

  The next hour was almost unbearable as I sat there in the hut, listening to all the horrible sounds coming from the clearing. The pounding noise ceased. There was the crunch of more footsteps, the sound of a struggle, a cry as Pulaski was tied to the stake. The shaman’s voice rang out then, commanding his people to come and watch. I wished I were anywhere else, wished I had never stepped foot in this brooding, brutal country of ice and snow and bloodthirsty violence accepted with a shrug. There was a ripping noise as Pulaski’s coat was torn away, then silence, silence that seemed to last forever.

  “I can’t stand it, Vanya. I must—”

  He placed his hands on my shoulders, gently holding me down.

  “Will soon be over,” he told me.

  There was a loud snap, a whistling noise as the long leather lash flew through the air, a deadly crack as the knout found its target, followed by a terrible, agonized scream. A collective gasp came from the crowd assembled, forced to watch, and I knew the first lash had brought the longed-for blood. The second lash followed several moments later—Orlov was in no hurry—and the sounds were repeated, the scream even more shattering. My hands gripped the arms of the chair, my knuckles bone white. I was responsible for this torture, this terror. Josef Pulaski had planned to abduct me, do me grievous harm, but no man should have to endure such torture, no matter what his crime. I winced as the lash snapped and whistled and cracked a third time. The scream torn from Pulaski’s throat bore no resemblance to human sound.

  A long silence followed. Tense, I waited for the snap, the whistle, the crack. Each second that passed seemed an eternity.

  “Bring a bucket of water!” Orlov ordered. His voice was harsh, ugly. I hardly recognized it. “Throw it in his face! I want him conscious.”

  Scurrying noises as his order was obeyed, a loud splash, a groan, another lash, another inhuman scream. On and on it went, one lash following another, the torture cleverly, cruelly prolonged. Three more times Pulaski passed out. Three more times he was revived. When at last the final lash had been administered, he made a low, gurgling sound, half moan, half sob, and that, too, ended abruptly. I heard them sawing the rope that held him to the stake, heard a thud as his body fell to the ground, and then there was a shuffling, crunching noise as the peasants left the clearing.

  Time passed. A servant brought a lavish lunch to my hut. I told Vanya to send the man away. I couldn’t possibly eat. Later on more servants came to clear out the hut, to remove the carpet, the furs, all the luxurious items that had been provided for my comfort. Vanya led me slowly to the troika Lucie and I shared, and as we crossed the clearing I saw the tall stake that had been driven into the ground, the pieces of rope dangling. The snow around the stake was splattered with brilliant crimson flecks.

  Lucie was waiting beside the troika. She told me she was going to ride her horse for the first lap of today’s journey, and I was relieved. I didn’t relish anyone’s company just now. She studied my face for a moment, gave my hand a reassuring squeeze and left. Vanya told me to climb inside. I shook my head. I said I would stand out here for a few minutes, that I wanted to breathe some fresh air. He frowned, looking as though he were afraid I might do myself some harm. I insisted he get on about his business, and he left reluctantly, looking back over his shoulder at me several times before disappearing behind one of the supply troikas.

  The sky was a much darker gray now, deep pewter, heavily laden with ponderous clouds that promised more snow. The sunlight was a dull silver, growing duller, and ice and snow no longer glittered but gleamed instead with a silver-gray sheen touched with violet. It was colder. I pulled the red fox fur hood closer to my face, the soft fur caressing my icy cheeks. All around was a bustle of activity as the last items were packed away, the last horse saddled, the last campfire extinguished. Our driver climbed onto his perch, his huge black fur coat with matching cap pulled down over his ears. In a few minutes we would be leaving the village and I would never see it again, but what had happened here would live in my memory forever. I would never be able to forget those horrible sounds or those vivid red specks on the snow.

  I saw Gregory Orlov moving down the line of troikas toward me. I didn’t want to speak to him. I didn’t even know if I could face him. I started to climb into the troika, hesitated, turned back around. I couldn’t avoid him. I might as well confront him now and get it over with. His bulky brown fur coat was open in front, revealing the tan velvet tunic beneath, and his head was still uncovered, the tawny golden brown locks damp, dull. His face was slightly moist, too, the cheeks flushed pink, and as he stopped in front of me I could smell sweat and that potent male musk that seemed stronger than ever. His eyes were not angry, not accusing as they looked into mine. They were tender, full of concern.

  “You are not hurt?” he asked.

  “I’m not hurt.”

  “Your voice, it is cold.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Your manner is cold, too. It is because of what happened?”

  “I don’t care to discuss it, Count Orlov.”

  “This morning you call me ‘Gregory.’”

  “I’d as soon forget this morning.”

  “I see. You are the genteel English lady. You recoil from me because I whip this man, give him much pain. You think Orlov is a savage brute. Is this not so?”

  “You—you kept reviving him. You wanted him to suffer as much as possible. You—”

  “This is so,” he said, his voice sharp now. “It is necessary this man be punished, necessary I give him this pain, set an example for all the others he has influenced, who might decide to follow him. You do not understand these things, Marietta.”

  “I don’t suppose I do.”

  “I do this for you. I do it for every well-bred woman in Russia who is threatened by Josef Pulaski and his kind. I am sorry if you do not see this. I am sad if you hate me because I must wield the knout myself.”

  “I don’t hate you, Count Orlov.”

  “Your voice, your manner tell me otherwise.”

  “I’m sorry. I—I’m terribly upset. I’ve had a dreadful shock, and I don’t—I don’t feel like discussing it.”

  His eyes were fender once more, heavy lids drooping over them. He wanted to comfort and console me. I could see that. He wanted to take my hand and pat it, draw me against his broad chest and stroke the back of my head as he might stroke a disturbed child, but he didn’t. I couldn’t hate this man. I understood all that he said and understood that, to his way of thinking, he had done what he had to do, but that didn’t make the savage cruelty any easier to accept.

  “You will feel better later,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “I do not bother you any longer.”

  “I appreciate your consideration.”

  He looked pained. He started to turn away. I stopped him.

  “Is—” I hesitated, dreading to ask the question. “Is Pulaski going to live?”

  Gregory Orlov shrugged. “Maybe he lives. Maybe he dies. Is not important.”

  He sauntered away. The cossacks began to ride up and down the line and harnesses began to rattle and male voices rang out with hearty glee. I climbed into the troika and closed the door. The driver clicked his reins, and in a moment the long runners began to slide over the ice and we were moving again, leaving the village just as the first gusts of heavy snowflakes swirled from the pewter sky.

  Chapter Twelve
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  Lucie sighed as we stepped from the posthouse into the brilliant morning sunlight. Her golden brown hair fell to her shoulders in a gleaming mass, and her lovely young face was petulant. Like me, Lucie was growing weary of this constant travel, and it didn’t matter that we were within a week and a half of our destination. She glanced at our troika as though it were a torture chamber and said that she guessed she’d have to endure it, she was far too lazy to ride her horse this morning.

  “At least it’s not snowing,” I said. “It’s a gorgeous day.”

  She gave me a look that implied I was disgustingly ill-informed and walked on to the troika. Despite her mood she was lovely in soft gray fur and a violet brocade gown embroidered with silver flowers. Though not anticipating another long day of travel any more than Lucie was, I felt quite refreshed after a good night’s sleep in a wonderfully comfortable bed and the sumptuous breakfast.

  After leaving the village twelve days ago, we had found only one posthouse destroyed by fire, the others undamaged, and as we drew nearer St. Petersburg I was delighted to find that the posthouses grew more and more comfortable. The one in which we had just spent the night was as pleasant as a good English inn, fireplaces in every tidy room, a spacious taproom downstairs. The roads were better, too, much wider, smoother, and while before it had seemed we were the only people in the world foolhardy enough to travel across the country in this weather, we now encountered other travelers on occasion.

  “You sleep well?” Vanya inquired.

  Lost in thought, I hadn’t heard him approach. I nodded, smiling.

  “And you?” I asked.

  Vanya frowned. “Me, I am most foolish. I drink too much vodka. I play cards with Leo, Nikolai, and others. Nikolai cheats. I lose much money. Nikolai loses half of one ear. I slice it off when we fight with knives.”

  “That’s dreadful!”

  “Not to worry. Nikolai is very ugly fellow. It makes him prettier.”

  “You’re terrible, Vanya.”

  “This I know. I saddle Natasha for you this morning?”

  “I believe I will ride her,” I told him. “Lucie is not the best of company this morning.”

  “She is young. She is bored. She brightens up when we reach St. Petersburg. I go saddle Natasha for you now.”

  The ferocious-looking cossack departed, and I looked up at the sky, relieved to see a clear blue-gray vault without a sign of clouds. We had been through two very severe blizzards, the first coming upon us just after we left the village. Our progress had been reduced to a snail’s pace, and after the second blizzard, four days later, we had lost half a day while the men wielded shovels and cleared away an enormous snowdrift that made the road impassable. Today, though, was going to be beautiful. Although it was bitterly cold, as usual, there was no wind, and the radiant sunlight seemed to caress my cheeks as I stood there in front of the posthouse.

  I was wearing a deep topaz silk gown and a cloak of lustrous golden brown sable Lucie had loaned me. The red fox cloak had been packed away. I doubted I would ever wear it again. The garment had too many unpleasant associations for me, and even now, twelve days later, I shuddered when I thought of the horror of all that had happened.

  Hearing someone coming from the posthouse behind me, I turned. Gregory Orlov paused for a final word with the innkeeper, handed the man a bag of coins and then continued toward me. He wore high black boots, snug navy blue velvet breeches and tunic and a waist-length black fur cape with matching hat, looking superbly handsome, if somewhat strained when he saw me standing beside the path.

  He forced a pleasant smile onto his lips. I forced one onto mine, feeling as strained as he. Count Orlov had been as friendly, as considerate as ever since that day in the village, but there was a remoteness in his manner that had not been there before. It was as though an invisible wall had been placed between us. He no longer sought me out, seemed to avoid me, in fact, and when we did speak he was a bit too polite. Both of us were embarrassed now by this unexpected encounter.

  “You are ready to leave?” he inquired.

  “I’m waiting for Vanya to bring Natasha around.”

  “I see. You ride again today. It is beautiful day for this We will make very good time, I think.”

  His voice was friendly, his manner extremely polite, but the invisible wall was undeniably there, locked in place, preventing both of us from really communicating. Though apparently relaxed, he was clearly eager to move on, and I was finding it desperately hard to think of something to say.

  “The posthouse was very comfortable,” I finally managed.

  “Yes. I’m glad you have a good place to sleep. The journey has been very difficult.”

  “I—I really haven’t minded.”

  “In five days’ time we come to the estate of my friend Count Rostopchin. We stay there a day or so before going on to St. Petersburg. You will enjoy the rest.”

  “It will be welcome, I’m sure.”

  “Do not ride the horse too long today,” he cautioned. “You do not want to tire yourself.”

  “I won’t,” I said.

  He gave me a polite nod then and moved on in that long, brisk stride of his, boots crunching the ice, the short black cape swinging from his shoulders. I had ambivalent feelings as I watched him depart. I was relieved, for it had indeed been difficult to find anything to say—as much for him as for me, I suspected—but I felt a curious disappointment as well. I missed that easy warmth, that intimacy, that sense of my being someone very special to him that he had conveyed before. Orlov had withdrawn from me, and though I told myself it was for the best, that it was precisely what I wanted, a subtle discontentment marred each day.

  It was my own fault, of course. I had as much as told him to let me be when he stopped to speak to me just before we left the village. I had been cool, withdrawn, and Orlov undoubtedly felt he was obeying my wishes in adopting this new, remote politeness. We had reached an impasse, it seemed, and I had no one to blame but myself.

  Vanya was walking past the line of troikas, leading a prancing, saddled Natasha. With Vanya’s assistance. I swung up into the saddle. Feet planted firmly in the stirrups, I adjusted my skirts and the hang of my cloak, eager to start riding.

  Signals were given. Orders were shouted. The line of troikas began to move slowly down the road, gradually picking up speed. The cossacks yelled lustily and waved their sabres, filled with their customary high spirits. The posthouse receded in the distance, growing smaller and smaller, out of sight now, and the frigid white beauty of the Russian countryside glistened all around.

  Natasha was thrilled when I let her race and romp up the line, expending all that marvelous energy. Though I couldn’t keep up with the cossacks, nor did I try, I was a skilled enough rider now to give the capricious creature free rein without the least fear of my tumbling off—as I had done a humiliating number of times when Vanya had been instructing me. Sitting securely in the saddle with back straight and my hands loosely clasping the reins, I moved with her, the two of us a single unit.

  My hood fell back. My hair flew free. The icy air smote my cheeks and stung my brow, and it was exhilarating as we covered mile after mile and the huge troikas sped along with bells jingling, harnesses jangling, a merry noise splintering the somber silence of this desolate land. An hour went by, two, and though still rowdy, the cossacks settled down to a vigorous gallop, and I forced a disappointed Natasha into a steady, sedate gait. Vanya rode past us and grinned fiercely and swirled his sabre at us, and, from the window of our troika, Lucie glanced out at me with a bored expression.

  Count Orlov rode at the head of the line, a handsome centaur on the powerful black steed whose coat gleamed like polished ebony. The horse was larger, more muscular than any of the others, a truly magnificent beast as befitted its rider. A superb horseman, Orlov rode with total authority, dominating the gigantic stallion with casual ease. He seemed as immense, as mysterious, as subtly menacing as the land itself—harsh, cruel, beautiful, and p
erpetually fascinating.

  How did I feel about him? How did I really feel? I had been appalled by his savage cruelty to Pulaski, but I knew in my heart that, from Orlov’s viewpoint, the cruelty was completely justified, even necessary, and I knew as well that that cruel streak had always been there. I had sensed it beneath the warmth, the jovial facade. It seemed to be an intergral part of the Russian character, seething beneath the surface, just waiting to be unleashed. They all had it. Even the gentle, teasing, protective Vanya could change into a monster of cruelty when provoked. I had seen it happen. Could I blame Orlov for something that was clearly inherent? The Russian male looked upon such matters as pain and punishment and death with a much harder, more practical eye than his more civilized English counterpart.

  Joseph Pulaski would have killed me without a moment’s hesitation, had planned to leave me bound and gagged under the frozen shrubbery, perhaps to die. He had planned to take me as a prize to the demented peasant who was his leader, to rape me repeatedly on the journey. He was a vicious troublemaker, stirring other peasants to violent rebellion, was savage, brutal, demented himself. Wasn’t his punishment entirely just? And hadn’t part of Orlov’s harshness been because I myself had been Pulaski’s victim? “I do this for you,” he had said. “I do it for every well-bred woman in Russia who is threatened by Joseph Pulaski and his kind.”

  Orlov was right—I didn’t understand these matters. With my heritage, my background, my upbringing, I was incapable of seeing them from the viewpoint of those who belonged to this strange country. I had been too hard on him, I told myself. I was responsible for that invisible wall that had come between us, and, as the icy air numbed my cheeks and nose, as I forced Natasha to a slower trot, I finally acknowledged that the invisible wall bothered me a great deal. Far more than I would have liked to admit. I missed the warmth, the tender concern, the attention.