The Seeds of Power

by Christopher Nicole

  She tossed her head. ‘You are my husband, Mr MacLain, before man and before God. That we solemnise it is a religious requirement. But the deed is done. Now, would you like to fuck me again, as you are sober, and more in command of yourself?’

  ‘You unutterable, vulgar bitch! I would like to beat the living daylights out of you.’

  ‘That is your privilege, as it is the privilege of every Russian husband. Is that what you propose to do? Oh, do not worry. I shall not resist you.’

  He stared at her in impotent fury. She was completely in command, both of herself and the situation. In his entire life it had never occurred to him to consider striking a woman, but...he swung his hand for her cheek. She gave a little shriek and threw up both hands; these caught the blow but could not resist the force behind it, which knocked her over her chair and on to her hands and knees. ‘Not my face, you fool,’ she snapped. ‘It is not done to mark a woman’s face!’

  His anger was increasing. He raised his foot, to place it on her buttocks and send her flying flat on the floor. She still seemed concerned only with protecting her face and lay supinely before him, not attempting to move, both hands pressed to her cheeks.

  He stood above her, experiencing a series of emotions he had never known before. He was her prisoner, her victim; but she wanted to be his, equally. He realised he could do anything to her at that moment—save, it seemed, mark her face—and she would not object. He wanted to hurt her. He wanted to make her realise that she could not control events, control him, make a mockery of his life. What would she really do, if he beat her? Surely then there would be some response from the male members of this family. How he wished to see both Georgei and his father down the barrel of a duelling pistol; he was not the slightest bit apprehensive of the outcome: he had been the best shot in the regiment.

  He scooped at her skirts. There were several of them, and one or two tore as he dragged on them. Her stockinged legs and bare buttocks were exposed, and, still keeping his left foot planted in the middle of her back, he pulled off his belt and gave her a resounding blow on the white flesh. She uttered a little shriek, and he raised the belt again, then looked down at the red weal and felt thoroughly ashamed of himself.

  He stepped away from her, threading the belt back round his waist. Dagmar rolled over and sat up, her skirts still above her knees. ‘Why, Mr MacLain,’ she said. ‘One blow? That is no way to treat a lady!’

  CHAPTER THREE - THE WIFE

  Colin slammed the door behind him and leaned against it. The exertion had his wound throbbing with pain. Well, perhaps he would die. Or perhaps get himself killed. He heard the front door close, and voices.

  He ran down the stairs and into the central hall, where Georgei and another officer were being helped out of their greatcoats by the footmen. Georgei grinned at him. ‘Well, Colin! All arranged?’

  Colin went up to him. ‘I have just beaten your sister on her bare ass,’ he said.

  Georgei nodded. ‘She enjoys that. As long as you please her, you will get on famously.’

  ‘I have just quarrelled with your father!’ Colin shouted.

  Georgei turned to his companion. ‘Did I not tell you that he is a most vehement fellow? He will bring some powerful blood into our family. By the way, Colin, you have not been introduced. This is my friend, Constantine Dubaclov. He was not able to be at the ball, poor fellow, because he was on duty.’

  Colin gave a brief bow, then faced Georgei.

  ‘Sir, I am bound to say that I consider that you and your family have behaved in a most dishonourable manner. Almost you make me regret that I saved your life.’

  ‘Ah, but I shall never regret saving yours, Colin. What would you, Constantine? I brought this fellow into the bosom of my family, so what does he do? He seduces my sister and now wishes to be excused from marrying her.’

  ‘That is a lie!’ Colin snapped.

  ‘But still,’ Georgei went on as if he had not spoken. ‘We assume that he is suffering from dementia because of his wound. It will seem different on Bolugayen, eh?’

  ‘Ah, Bolugayen,’ Dubaclov said. ‘There is no more beautiful place on earth. You will like it there, Lieutenant MacLain.’

  Attempting to oppose, or anger, these people, was like attempting to punch his way through a feather mattress. But there surely remained one certain way of solving his dilemma. ‘You, sir,’ he told Georgei, ‘are a liar and a cheat, an abductor of women, a rapist and a villain.’

  Dubaclov drew a sharp breath, but Georgei continued to smile, although there were pink spots on his cheeks. ‘Vehement,’ he remarked. ‘Always vehement.’

  Colin swung his hand, and slashed it across Georgei’s cheek. The Russian gave a little stagger, then regained his balance. ‘The choice of place, time and weapons are yours,’ Colin told him. ‘Only let there be a choice.’

  Georgei stroked his chin. ‘There will be no choice, Colin,’ he said. ‘How may a man fight his own brother-in-law? There may come a time when Dagmar no longer desires you as a husband...’ His eyes gleamed. ‘Then perhaps I may respond to your challenge.’ He looked past Colin. ‘Lieutenant MacLain is not himself,’ he said. ‘I wish you to confine him to his room, until further orders. Do not use more force than you have to.’

  Colin turned, and saw four footmen behind him. He looked back at Georgei. ‘You are also a coward,’ he said.

  Georgei bowed.

  *

  He attempted to get some rest, and was disturbed by the arrival of Yevrentko in the middle of the afternoon. ‘Your servant, Mr MacLain,’ the schoolmaster said in English. ‘I have been hearing all manner of rumours.’

  ‘They are probably facts, not rumours,’ Colin said. ‘Then you are betrothed to Her Excellency? You are a very fortunate fellow.’

  ‘Do you think so? She sized me up and decided to have me. As if I were a slave on a block.’

  Yevrentko nodded. ‘They are like that, these country-bred aristocrats. They know little of the outside world, only their own unlimited power. Your pride is hurt, because she chose you. Now if it had been the other way around, and you had chosen some pretty maid to be your wife, whether she wished it or no, you would find the situation entirely natural.’

  ‘You cannot pretend this situation is natural,’ Colin snapped. ‘Dagmar Bolugayevska is beautiful, rich, undoubtedly the apple of her father’s eye; she could surely have the pick of every unattached young man in Russia. But she picks me, a foreigner who is an enemy of her country, who is six years her junior and who has made it perfectly clear that he does not wish to be her husband.’

  ‘It is a private family matter,’ Yevrentko said. ‘Then, am I not entitled to know of it, as I am now virtually a member of the family?’

  The schoolmaster hesitated, then shook his head. ‘It is not for me to say. I but came to wish you goodbye, as I understand you are leaving Sevastopol tomorrow.’

  ‘Wait!’ Colin seized his arm. ‘You must tell me the truth of the matter.’

  ‘I cannot.’ Yevrentko looked down at Colin’s hand. ‘Please do not make me invoke the aid of those fellows.’ For the two footmen had remained in the room.

  Colin sighed, and let him go.

  *

  That evening a bath was poured for him, and his dinner clothes laid out. ‘Suppose I do not wish to eat with the family?’ he inquired.

  The footman bowed. ‘Then you will be served here, sir. It is entirely as you wish.’ Colin allowed himself to be dressed and went down to dinner.

  Georgei had stayed for the meal, as had his guest, Dubaclov. Prince Bolugayevski was as beamingly good-humoured as ever. And Dagmar was as attractive as ever, wearing an extremely decolletage dress, with her hair piled in a chignon. She revealed a huge amount of white flesh. A woman with an unpleasant secret, if Yevrentko’s guarded remarks were anything to go by. Or did it involve the entire family? Colin recalled Lord Blaistone’s words.

  He was welcomed as if no crisis had ever occurred. The talk and laughter were gen
eral as they drank champagne before the meal, and then sat at various places scattered around the huge table. Colin said little, but no one seemed to care. He could not believe that they supposed he had accepted the situation. Perhaps they did not care whether he accepted it or not. They held all the trumps. ‘We must be early to bed, Constantine,’ the Prince said when they had drunk their brandies. ‘We are leaving before first light.’

  Dagmar accompanied Colin into the hall after dinner. ‘We have a long journey tomorrow. I will wish you a good night.’

  They gazed at each other. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  He was aroused soon after midnight, by his attendants; he had now, he reckoned, to consider them as guards. But clearly, he was never going to have a better chance of escaping than on this journey. It was an idea of which he was soon disabused. There was a caravan of troikas waiting in the courtyard, all mounted on sleds and each to be drawn by two horses, presently surrounded by milling servants loading various boxes. ‘Normally we attach bells to the ponies, and have a merry journey,’ Prince Bolugayevski told Colin. ‘But I think we will dispense with the merriment until we are clear of the isthmus.’

  The Prince himself got into one of the vehicles with some of his servants. Colin was placed in another, seated beside Dagmar who was, like himself and the Prince, so wrapped up that only her eyes were visible. Two menservants were seated opposite them. The rest of the party took their places, and the cavalcade moved out of the yard of the Bolugayevski Palace, accompanied by a guard of hussars. It was five o’clock, and still very dark; the street was several inches deep in hard-packed white powder. It had been a moonless night, and there were no stars to be seen through the blanket of gray cloud.

  Within a few minutes of leaving the palace, they were halted at a checkpoint, and Colin realised they were at the inner defences. If he did manage to escape, any information he could carry to Balaclava would be invaluable. But it was difficult to make out in the darkness more than the parapet and ditch, and the emplaced guns. Then they were allowed through, to be stopped again shortly afterwards at the outer wall; now he could see some towers, looming up in a sinister fashion, and again, ditches and glacis and heavy guns. The Russians were certainly prepared to resist any attempt at a coup-de-main.

  Then again they were through, and trotting along a wide, embanked road. The darkened houses and forts of the city had disappeared. ‘This is the dangerous part,’ Dagmar said. ‘It will soon be daylight.’ And added, ‘It is below freezing out there. A man would not last very long, without a horse to take him to warmth.’

  He believed her, as he parted the curtains to look out at the white wilderness to either side. But he could not believe that this road, which had to be known to the Allies, was not patrolled. He parted the curtains again as the first light dawned. ‘You will have us freezing inside as well as out,’ Dagmar complained.

  He ignored her. There was still nothing to be seen, save cold-stunted trees. Then he saw smoke, and roofs; they were coming to a village. Their escort now moved up to either side, and Colin’s vista was cut off. But a few moments later there was a shot. The hussars immediately wheeled their horses and rode away to the right, floundering through the snow. Colin craned his neck, and saw, on a rise, a patrol of horsemen; from their uniforms he thought they might be Chasseurs D’Afrique. In any event the Frenchmen knew they were outnumbered, and were retiring. But surely this had to be his chance...he heard a click, and looked back into the interior of the troika, to gaze at a pistol, held by one of the servants, and pointed at him.

  He looked at Dagmar. ‘I would not have you do anything foolish, my dearest one,’ she said.

  ‘And it amuses you to keep me a close prisoner,’ he said bitterly.

  She smiled. ‘But are you not pleased to have such a pretty gaoler? It could have been a lot worse.’

  ‘I gather you have a secret,’ he said, ignoring the footmen. ‘Do you not suppose I should share it?’

  She made a move. ‘Do you not have at least one secret? I have not asked to share any of them.’

  *

  It was roughly three hundred and fifty miles from Sevastopol to Poltava, their destination, and the journey took them a month. For that time they were entirely cut off from the rest of the world. Even when they stopped, at villages or towns along the way, they were the bearers of what news there was from the south; there was no news from the north.

  *

  The most surprising member of the party was Dagmar. If it had been all but impossible to resist her beauty and sexuality in Sevastopol; it was impossible not to admire her fortitude and determination to ignore the hardships of the journey. If she guarded her complexion with the greatest care, never going out of doors without her face covered save for her eyes, she never complained at delays, and when one of the troikas became stuck, she was as willing as anyone to lend her shoulder to push and fall to her hands and knees in the snow to free the vehicle. Indeed, she preferred to do this than let Colin attempt it. ‘You are still not yet back to your full strength,’ she would say.

  It was a topsy-turvy world, Colin reflected, where he was desperately determined not to let himself fall in love with his wife!

  *

  ‘Poltava!’ Dagmar said. ‘Tomorrow we will be in Poltava.’

  ‘Your home is close to Poltava?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Very close.’

  In fact, the Bolugayevskis maintained a palace in the city itself, and into the courtyard of this the cavalcade slithered the following day. Here the temperature was consistently below freezing, as it was now early February. But within the palace all was warmth and glowing candelabra. ‘Baths,’ Dagmar declared. ‘And news.’

  The steward bowed. ‘It is not good, Your Excellency. It could happen at any moment.’

  ‘I must get out there,’ the Prince said. ‘So must you. And your fiancé. Forget the baths.’

  Dagmar hesitated, then nodded. ‘You will have to wait until Bolugayen,’ she told Colin.

  ‘One of your family is ill?’

  ‘My grandmother is dying. Pray we are in time,’ she said. ‘I wish for her blessing.’

  *

  A journey of some three hours brought them into the forecourt of the immense Bolugayevski mansion. ‘This is the front of our estate,’ Dagmar told him. ‘For the next two hundred miles, all is ours.’ She was not boasting.

  The entire drive was lined with people, men, women, and children, standing bare-headed, waiting to honour their master. Before the house there was a crowd of grooms and footmen, huge shaggy dogs and shivering serving maids.

  And two utterly beautiful young women. Alexander Bolugayevski embraced them both, briefly, and then hurried inside, one arm round each of their waists. ‘My sisters,’ Dagmar said, hurrying behind them, and looking over her shoulder. ‘You must come too.’

  Colin followed, stamping snow from his boots as he entered the brilliantly lit vestibule of the house.

  Footmen came forward to take off his fur coat, as others were doing for Dagmar in front of him.

  He gazed at a huge downstairs hall, off which reception rooms led left and right. Each room contained a roaring fire. In every direction there was another army of bowing servants. In front of him there was an immense staircase, dividing as it reached the first-floor gallery. Up this Dagmar was hurrying; in front of her the Prince and his two younger daughters were entering one of the upper reception rooms. ‘This way, Your Excellency,’ said the majordomo, and Colin ran up behind his future wife.

  He caught her up on the gallery. ‘Do you think I should intrude?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and checked in the doorway.

  Inside the room there were already several people gathered around a daybed on which there lay a woman. All heads turned as Dagmar entered. ‘Is she…’

  The woman on the bed raised her hand, and Dagmar ran forward, dropping to her knees beside her grandmother. ‘I am glad you came,’ the Princess Dowager Bolugayevska said, her voice wea
k but clear. ‘So glad.’

  ‘I have brought someone, dearest Grandmama,’ Dagmar said. ‘My fiancé.’

  ‘Let him come forward,’ the dying woman commanded.

  Alexander Bolugayevski beckoned Colin. Everyone in the room was looking at him. Colin knelt beside Dagmar feeling exceedingly embarrassed. ‘What is your name?’ the Princess asked.

  Colin had to lick his lips. ‘I am Lieutenant Colin MacLain, of Her Majesty’s Eleventh Hussars, Your Highness.’

  ‘A hussar!’ the Countess said. ‘Georgei is a hussar. Will you make my Dagmar happy?’

  ‘I…’ He glanced at Dagmar. ‘I shall endeavour to do so, Your Highness.’

  ‘Then I am happy.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I give you my blessing, my children.’ She sighed.

  The doctor moved forward. ‘She must rest, Your Highnesses.’

  Alexander nodded, and touched Dagmar on the shoulder. ‘I will remain.’

  ‘And I, Papa,’ said one of the girls.

  Dagmar touched Colin on the arm, and he followed her out, accompanied by the other daughter. Colin gazed at yellow hair and exquisite features and, he estimated, a thin body beneath the heavy gown. ‘Alexandra is fourteen, Mr MacLain,’ Dagmar said, perhaps as a warning. ‘Lieutenant MacLain is going to be your brother-in-law, Alix.’

  The girl offered him her hand to kiss. He did so. ‘You have been blessed by Grandmama,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘Perhaps you will bring happiness to Bolugayen.’

  Colin glanced at Dagmar. ‘It is my determination that he will,’ Dagmar said. ‘And now, Mr MacLain, I think you should have a bath. I certainly mean to.’

  Nothing had ever felt so good, or, Colin supposed, been so necessary. He could feel the accumulated filth of a month peeling off, even as he felt the accumulated cold of that month being dissipated from finger and toe, ear and nose.

  ‘I am Vassily,’ said a young man, kneeling behind the tub and somewhat fastidiously washing Colin’s hair. ‘I am to be your personal servant, Your Excellency.’