The Seeds of Power

by Christopher Nicole

  Then a carriage! She had never ridden in a carriage. And then, Bolugayen. ‘This will all be mine, one day,’ Count Georgei had said, as they topped the last rise and could look down on the palace. ‘I will share some of it with my son.’

  ‘And with his mother?’ she had been bold enough to ask.

  ‘Some of it,’ he had promised.

  *

  Certainly she had continued to be well-treated on the estate. She had understood right away that the family did not approve of Georgei’s action, or even of his choice of her, a foreigner, as the mother of his first child. But they had accepted it, because Georgei was the future Prince.

  The Bolugayevski serfs had regarded her with even more suspicion than the family, at first; she was not only a stranger in a community where every member had known each other all of their lives, but she was the Count’s creature. It had taken all of her natural friendliness to win them over at all, and even then she had been aware that there were secrets in the community from which she was barred. She had had no idea just how deadly some of those secrets were. That knowledge had come after the baby had been born.

  The tragedy of Georgei Bolugayevski’s life, she supposed, was that he had never beheld the son by whom he had set such store. Barred as he was by the excesses of his sister from marrying into polite society, he had intended to educate his bastard to the highest degree, and once he had inherited, to make the boy his heir and cock a snook at the entire Russian establishment. He had even included her in that heady dream of the future, although he had made it plain that he would never marry her.

  Her dream lay in the direction of revenge. But as she had no wish to die on the scaffold she had determined that it would be a slow and patient revenge, to be achieved through the medium of her son. But then so much had changed. The war had started, and Georgei had had to go off and join his regiment, only a few weeks before her delivery. At the same time, the Prince had determined to go to his Crimean home and make sure all his shipping interests would not be in danger. Countess Dagmar had decided to accompany him.

  That decision had changed Jennie’s life. The estate had been left in the care of the Princess Dowager, a stern old lady who disapproved of her grandson’s infatuation with a slut, as she considered the relationship to be. The moment the child was born she had informed Jennie that she was as much a serf as anyone else, and would have to work for her keep. The baby boy had been taken away from her, except for his feeds; she had not been allowed to bathe him or even to kiss him goodnight. She had been returned to the kitchens, and caned for good measure.

  That had led her immediately into the orbit of Igor Bondarevski the butler, and she had discovered how deeply hated the Bolugayevskis were by their serfs. Igor was a man of many parts; the Will of the People was only one of them. Then, she had found a true Bolugayevski lover in Vassily, and learned that he too was a member of the Will. She had thought it nothing more than a servant’s dream world, until the discovery that Nikolai Raspeen and his woman were in possession of seditious literature. Jennie had then understood that she was in the midst of a gigantic conspiracy. She had not sought to enter it herself; the concept had been too terrifying. She had kept away from it, until in February the Prince and Dagmar had returned, bearing with them their captive husband. That he had been Colin MacLain, a man she had always admired, had been a considerable shock, but that he had promised to help her, had seemed the best thing that had ever happened to her, better even than the death of the Dowager Princess.

  Then had come the summons to Prince Alexander’s bed. She had been plunged into a deeper hell than she had previously experienced. Her hatred had come flooding back, fuelled by the realisation that Colin MacLain had been merely using words to her—he was too much Dagmar’s subservient creature ever to attempt to carry out his promise. Thus had come the realisation that she did not wish to wait any longer, on either the growth to manhood of her son, or the chance that Colin might after all turn out better than seemed possible. She had sought an immediate solution to her hatred, some kind of revenge, for the terror and humiliation in which they were forced to live. But there had to be some end in view. To murder the old woman, or the two girls, would have been simple enough. But there would remain Smyslov, and his people, to control events until the Prince and his son could be brought back. Murder, on that scale, was beyond their power. And at the end of it all, the Prince and the Count would still return, breathing vengeance. The Will of the People dreamed but they did not really wish to die. But now that Georgei was coming home in a wooden box...

  *

  The wagons rumbled into the yard at the back of the Bolugayevski Palace, and Jennie hurried inside. She had been allowed to be part of the household since the Princess Dowager’s death, as she was both one of the Prince’s playthings and the mother of Georgei’s son. No decision had yet been taken regarding the babe, now that his father’s dreams were ended forever. This was to be Prince Alexander’s prerogative—another reason for plotting his death.

  ‘He’s been fretful,’ complained Ludmilla the upstairs maid, who had been looking after the child.

  ‘He is hungry,’ Jennie said equably, and unfastened her bodice; even after fifteen months she still had some milk. Besides, she loved the feel of him.

  ‘Is there news?’ Ludmilla asked anxiously. ‘Does Sevastopol still stand?’

  ‘There have been some great battles,’ she said. ‘But Sevastopol still stands.’

  The door of the garret bedroom opened, and Vassily stood there. Ludmilla gave a hasty curtsey, and left; it was not merely that Vassily was the Prince’s son, even if he was condemned to a lifetime of serfdom—he was also known to have an understanding with Jennie. Now he turned the key behind the maid. ‘Well?’

  ‘You should not come here like this. Do you not suppose the family will become suspicious?’

  ‘The family!’ His tone was contemptuous. ‘I am the family. Where is it?’

  ‘In the satchel.’

  He took out the revolver, cradled it almost as tenderly as she was cradling the babe. ‘It is beautiful. Where are the bullets?’

  ‘In the box.’

  He opened the box, and took out one of the cartridges. ‘These are beautiful too.’

  ‘Woskov showed me how it works.’

  ‘I know how it works.’ He broke the gun, inserted the bullet into a chamber.

  ‘Not in here,’ she snapped. He took the bullet back out again. ‘There are twelve,’ she told him. ‘So you can practise.’

  ‘I do not need to practise,’ he said proudly. ‘I have fired a revolver before. The Prince let me.’

  ‘And you did not shoot him, then?’ She could be contemptuous too.

  ‘It was not the time.’ He put the revolver and the cartridges back into the bag and sat beside her on the cot. ‘I shall not need more than five of them.’

  ‘Five?’

  He grinned. ‘One for the Prince, one for Dagmar, one for Anna, one for Smyslov...and one for the Englishman.’

  ‘What of yourself, after?’

  ‘Who will arrest me? I will be the only surviving Bolugayevski male. Apart from your brat.’

  She hugged the babe against her. ‘You’ll not harm baby Georgei. What of the Countess Alexandra?’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘We agreed that Alexandra should live. She must live, to be our Princess.’ He grinned. ‘I shall rule beside her. Perhaps I shall even marry her.’

  ‘Your own half-sister?’

  ‘Well...bed her, anyway. I have long wanted to do that.’

  *

  Prince Alexander Bolugayevski walked his horse slowly down the drive to his palace.

  The servants were all in black. The death of the young Count was a far more serious affair than that of the Dowager Princess. Igor Bondarevski himself hurried forward to assist the Prince from the saddle. ‘Welcome home, Your Highness,’ he said.

  ‘To what?’ Bolugayevski demanded.

  The Prince stalked up the steps t
o the porch, where his daughters, his son-in-law, and his bailiff waited for him. They all wore black. With them was an officer wearing the uniform and insignia of a captain in the Actirski Hussars; he had a black armband on his left sleeve. ‘Captain Dubaclov, Your Excellency. I visited Bolugayen two years ago, and I dined with you in Sevastopol just before you left. I was Georgei’s friend. General Menschikov gave me compassionate leave to bring his body home.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Bolugayevski demanded.

  Dagmar led her father into the house, and into one of the reception rooms. On a trestle table in the centre of the room the coffin waited. It was open; Georgei had been embalmed for the long journey home. Yet it had been hastily done, and the summer was hot. There was an atmosphere in the room. Equally, the embalming had not been able to do much about the wound; the bullet had taken away half of Georgei’s face.

  Dagmar remained by the door while her father stood above the corpse. ‘Who did this?’ the Prince asked.

  Dagmar sighed. ‘They say it was an English bullet, Father.’

  He turned to face her. ‘And you married one,’ he snarled.

  ‘A man who once saved Georgei’s life, Father.’

  ‘For him to become this lump of carrion? Bare your ass.’ The hand which still held his riding crop twitched, and the thong snapped against his boot.

  Dagmar’s head came up. ‘You cannot whip me, Father. I am five months pregnant. With your grandchild!’

  He glared at her, then at her stomach, but in the loose gown there was no visible evidence. ‘Did you not get my letter?’ she asked.

  ‘I got your letter.’ His shoulders suddenly sagged. ‘My family is destroyed.’

  ‘Your family is here, in my belly.’

  ‘And the father?’

  ‘Give him the opportunity, and he will prove a worthy son to you.’

  ‘An Englishman? Who wishes only to escape you?’

  ‘I do not think he wishes to do that any longer, Father.’

  Bolugayevski looked down at his son for a last time. ‘Have him covered up,’ he said. ‘No one is to look on him again. He is ugly. And then bring Colin to me.’

  *

  Dagmar summoned Igor to have the coffin sealed, then took Colin upstairs to the Prince’s study.

  Bolugayevski sat behind his desk, leaning back in his chair. Dagmar gestured Colin also to a seat, and sat beside him. ‘I have heard good reports about you,’ the Prince said. ‘You impregnated the Queen of the Harvest. That is good. Even I have only ever done that once. Now you can no longer play act. Now you must take my son’s place.’

  ‘If I can,’ Colin said. ‘Did you despatch my letters, sir?’

  ‘Of course I did. And there have been no replies. Have you received any?’

  ‘No, sir. Yet must I write them again, sir, to make sure.’

  Bolugayevski leaned forward, pointing. ‘Let me remind you, young man, that you are still a prisoner of war. More, you have a responsibility to your wife, and to your unborn child. And now, even more than that, you have a responsibility to my family. It was an English bullet that struck down Georgei.’

  ‘I am sorry, sir. It was a Russian bullet that struck me down, at Balaclava.’

  The two men glared at each other. ‘Why must you quarrel, at such a time?’ Dagmar asked. ‘I am sure Colin will continue to fulfil his obligations to me, Father. Perhaps if you were to tell him exactly what you have in mind for him...’ The Prince raised his eyebrows. ‘You see,’ Dagmar went on, ‘Bolugayen must be ruled, and by a man. It is the law. We have stamped out the Will of the People by your prompt action last March, Papa. But still, we can take no chances on its recurring. By the very nature of things, it is possible that you may die...’ Bolugayevski cleared his throat. ‘Before our son grows to manhood,’ Dagmar continued. ‘In that case, you, Colin, will have to be the Prince, until our son can inherit.’

  ‘Would I really be the Prince?’ Colin asked.

  ‘There have been many well-born men of English and more especially Scottish descent who were ennobled by the tsars,’ Dagmar insisted.

  ‘It could be done,’ Bolugayevski agreed, grudgingly. ‘We could apply for the necessary letters patent, of adoption and ennoblement, from the Tsar. I had an audience with him, you know.’

  ‘Did you, Papa?’ Dagmar was suddenly excited.

  ‘That business was not mentioned. However, neither was I invited to a court reception he was holding a few days later.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her shoulders drooped.

  ‘But there are changes in the air,’ her father went on. ‘His Majesty is already canvassing opinion both on ending the war and on freeing the serfs. He is summoning a meeting of the boyars, as soon as it can be arranged, to discuss this. I am to attend.’

  ‘Then you will be re-accepted socially.’

  ‘Is that all you can think of? This is a serious situation. It is widely believed that the Tsar intends to free all the Imperial serfs, as soon as it is practical. Well, no one can stop him doing that, although I have no doubt that it will cause trouble. As to his other intentions, I doubt he can actually do either,’ Bolugayevski went on. ‘There are too many boyars implacably opposed to either course.’

  ‘And you of course are one of them, sir,’ Colin remarked.

  ‘I am. And so must you be, if you wish to be a Bolugayevski.’

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot agree to that, sir. I think the Tsar is adopting a most sensible, and correct attitude.’

  ‘Why, you...’

  ‘Papa!’ Dagmar said severely. ‘And you, Colin. You are behaving like children, with Georgei’s body lying downstairs. Colin! Papa is offering you an immense fortune, an immense future. It will also be the fortune and the future of your son.’ Her gaze softened. ‘Of your sons. Will you reject it?’

  Colin looked at her. It was an immense opportunity. But he could never be another Prince Bolugayevski, not in the mould the family required. Then he thought, but if I am ever the Prince Bolugayevski, then surely I could do as I please? I could create a new mould, for my son. For my sons. Suddenly, it was a most attractive prospect.

  ‘You would have to swear to make your home here in Russia,’ Dagmar said softly, watching his expression.

  He glanced at her, then at the Prince. ‘I would like to consider the offer, certainly, sir,’ he said.

  Bolugayevski nodded. ‘We will speak of it after the funeral.’

  *

  ‘Tell us the news, Captain Dubaclov,’ Alexandra begged at dinner.

  ‘Ah, the news,’ Dubaclov said. ‘Well, let me see, when last did you hear?’

  ‘We know the enemy were reinforced by some Sardinians in February,’ Anna said.

  ‘And we heard of the huge bombardment at Easter,’ Dagmar added.

  Dubaclov nodded. ‘That was a bad business. We suffered six thousand casualties. Their second attack, in June, they came at us, man to man. It was in that fight that Georgei fell. We held them, even if we suffered another five thousand casualties. Do you know what happened after that? I heard of it just as I was leaving. The British commander, Lord Raglan, died. Some say it was of a broken heart because of his failure.’ He grinned. ‘More likely it was cholera.’

  The table was silent for several minutes, then Colin said, ‘Are these casualties being replaced?’

  Dubaclov hesitated before replying. ‘I am afraid not. The way in and out of Sevastopol is virtually impassable since the Allies have been able to move closer. They allowed me through because I was escorting a dead officer. But replacements...no.’

  ‘Then Sevastopol is bound to fall.’

  Dubaclov sighed. ‘It does seem likely. There is a rumour that the Tsar is contemplating peace.’

  Alexander Bolugayevski set down his glass. ‘I have just returned from St Petersburg. I heard no such rumour.’

  Both Dagmar and Colin looked at him in surprise. ‘I am sorry, Your Highness,’ Dubaclov said. ‘I am only repeating what I heard in Sevastopol.’

  ‘
But...if the Tsar sues for peace, we will have been defeated,’ Alexandra said.

  ‘And Georgei will have died for nothing,’ Anna added, her tone bitter.

  Alexander Bolugayevski glared at his daughter, pushed back his chair and left the room. They heard him shouting at Igor. ‘Send the Englishwoman to me.’

  Colin made to rise, and Dagmar held his hand. ‘There is nothing you can do,’ she said. Not now. Please be sensible.’

  Slowly Colin sat down again.

  *

  The family waited in the breakfast room. Captain Dubaclov stood as close to Anna as he dared. He had thought Dagmar the most beautiful of women, when he had come here two years ago, and again when he had met her in Sevastopol. But now he had seen Anna. Anna was more beautiful than her sister, her features were softer; she was young, and virginal. She had, so far as he was aware, never left Bolugayen in her life. She was like an unopened rosebud, waiting for a man to come along and teach her all the delights of the world. So she too was a countess. And she was equally a possible princess, in the course of time. Thus her husband would also be a possible prince. To accomplish that, he might even find it possible not to hate the Englishman—or at least to appear not to do so. But Anna hardly seemed aware of his existence. Of course, she, like all her family, was overwhelmed with grief...There would be time later.

  Dagmar entered on the arm of her husband. Prince Bolugayevski came last. He greeted no one in the room, and no one attempted to greet him. Instead he addressed Father Alexei. ‘Is all ready?’