Cranky Ladies of History

by Tehani Wessely

  “Khutulun!”

  It was Esen’s voice. She turned in time to see him riding towards her, trailed by three men: the archer she had sent away, her father, and—she gulped—Mongke-Temur. Sudden nerves made her mouth as dry as her hands were wet. Capturing her cousin was a gamble on a gamble on a gamble, and the third time paid for all.

  “Little moon,” her father growled, reining his horse beside her, “what have you done?”

  Don’t falter, Khutulun thought, and forced herself to meet his gaze as she had once done before. “I have brought you the son of Kublai Khan,” she said, and as her arms chose that moment to give out, she made their weakness into a strength, shoving her captive to the ground as though she’d planned it all along. He moaned quietly, landing on his knees, one palm braced on the rocky earth as he peered groggily up at them. He coughed, and Khutulun barked, “Name yourself!”

  “Nomukhan,” he said. There was pride in the word, and fear.

  Kaidu Khan stared down at him. “You’ve grown,” he said, “since I saw you last.” And then, to the archer, “Take this prisoner to noyan Alghu.”

  Faster almost than Khutulun could comprehend, the archer dismounted, binding Nomukhan’s hands and tying that rope to his saddle, so that when he resumed his seat, the younger man was forced to stagger after him, stumbling over the rough ground. Esen was silent on his horse, head bowed; Mongke-Temur’s face was unreadable. Beyond them, the battle was almost over, but Khutulun kept her eyes on her father, waiting for his judgement.

  “How did you know him?” Kaidu’s voice was stern, but curious. “A man you’ve never met, and spied from a distance? I rode closer to him than you, but didn’t see.”

  Arms still trembling from her cousin’s weight, Khutulun said, “He had Esen’s look, father. Good armour, a rare-blooded horse. Who else could he have been?”

  The silence of Kaidu Khan was broken by Mongke-Temur’s laughter. “Your daughter is a striking hawk,” he said. “Would that all my men had such good eyes!”

  “I am fortunate in her,” said Kaidu, the barest trace of a smile on his face. “As in all my children.” His gaze flicked to Esen, who blushed at the praise, before turning back to Khutulun. “The next time we fight, little moon,” he said, and her heart near burst at those words, next time, “you ride with me.”

  ◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊

  When they returned, Esen’s old armour was exchanged for a new set made to Khutulun’s build. She drilled in it alongside her father’s men, and when she next rode out, the metal plates turned an arrow that would otherwise have gone straight through her shoulder. Qutuchin fussed over the impact bruise, but it was the first such mark of many, and after a while, she became as inured to the sight of Khutulun’s injuries as she was to the rhythms of their monthly blood: as pain to be endured in service of a greater, more necessary cause.

  “Greater for you, maybe,” Khutulun muttered, when Qutuchin expressed this sentiment out loud. She was sixteen now, and would no more countenance the future prospect of pregnancy than she could walk on water. “Here, let’s summon a witch: I’ll trade you my womb to use as a spare, and you can have children enough for the both of us.”

  Qutuchin cackled. “You would say something like that. But if Bolad has his way, you may not have a choice.”

  “Who?” said Khutulun.

  “Bolad! You know him. Young, handsome, wrestler? Wants to marry you?”

  “Wants to what?”

  “Marry you,” said Qutuchin, thoroughly exasperated. “Honestly, you spend all day with men you claim are terrible gossips—do you never actually listen to what they say?”

  “Rarely.”

  “Well, you should.” Qutuchin folded her arms. She was seventeen and sharp-tongued, as beautiful as the bright moon for which Khutulun was named. “He’s going to try and wrestle you for it, just like you always wanted.”

  Khutulun took a moment to process this statement. The vow she had made in childhood had long since passed into clan lore, affirmed by both Khutulun and her father whenever the subject came up. This was the first time anyone had tried to put it into practice. She burst out laughing. “Gods of luck, you almost had me worried! I could throw Bolad with my eyes closed. When’s this all meant to happen?”

  “Tomorrow morning.” Qutuchin rose from her bed, suddenly suspicious. “Khutulun, what are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking, why wait? There’s still light out.” She left the ger grinning, Qutuchin hurrying to catch up.

  She found Bolad by the corral, surrounded by a trio of friends who smirked and stood back at her approach. Bolad looked her up and down, a wide smile on his face. He was, she supposed, not wholly unhandsome, but his archery was terrible, and he told the worst jokes of anyone she had ever met.

  Khutulun crossed her arms. “I hear you want to marry me.”

  “I do,” said Bolad, surprise giving way to confidence in the time it took to blink. “I’ll even consent to wrestle you first.”

  “If you’re so certain of the outcome,” said Khutulun, cocking her head at the corral, “why not make it interesting? If you win, I marry you, and you take my black mare. If I win, we don’t marry, and you give me—” she made a show of considering, “—oh, ten horses of my choosing.”

  It was an extravagant bet for him to lose, not least because Bolad’s family herd was famed for its bloodlines. But Bolad, whose list of faults could now definitively be said to include overconfidence, agreed in a heartbeat.

  Khutulun smiled. “Shall we, then?”

  Bolad waved her forward. “After you.”

  There was no ceremony to it, none of the formality of true bokh; no zasuuls to coach them on, no dance beforehand to warm them up. Still, Khutulun took a moment to stretch her muscles, which were pleasantly sore from a day of horseback archery, and roped Qutuchin in as a witness. Her sister drew her eyebrows together, shooting Khutulun a look that was equal parts amused and disgusted, and said, in a voice that carried to the gathering spectators, “Begin.”

  Bolad closed with her quickly, but for all his cockiness—for all that he knew of Khutulun’s martial prowess, the battles she had fought and the prisoners she had taken—his grip on her was tentative, almost playful, like he expected her resistance to be token. Khutulun had been quite content to let him lose with at least some dignity, but this insult to both her skills and determination was too great to bear.

  She lowered her head, gripped Bolad beneath his arms, and stepped hard right with her left leg leading. Dropping her weight as she twisted, she turned and threw him over her shoulder. The move brought her down, too, falling as Bolad grabbed helplessly for purchase, but he hit the ground first, and everyone knew it. Khutulun stood and dusted herself off, fighting the grin that threatened to spread across her face. Two of Bolad’s friends were laughing, though the third looked furious; Qutuchin raised her eyes heavenward, as though praying for patience.

  “Khutulun wins,” she said, and Bolad gawked up at them like a fledgling newly fallen from its nest.

  “I’ll come for the horses tomorrow,” Khutulun said, and before Bolad could reply, she took Qutuchin’s arm and walked back into the ger, the sound of cheers and laughter following her like music.

  “You humiliated him,” Qutuchin said, voice low.

  “He humiliated himself.”

  “You know there’ll be consequences.”

  Khutulun chuckled. “I’m counting on it.”

  ◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊

  If Bolad had hoped that Kaidu Khan would prove sympathetic to his plight, he was sorely mistaken. Though he begged and grovelled over the matter of the ten horses, Kaidu was unbending, and by noon the next day, the best of his herd had passed into Khutulun’s hands. The story spread like fire through dry straw, and Bolad spent the next three days in hiding from the mockery of his fellows and the anger of his family, none of whom took kindly to the loss of their best breeding stock.

  Four days after that, a man r
ode in from a neighbouring clan in the company of three of his brothers, their maternal uncle and a string of fine mounts. Was it true, he asked, that Kaidu Khan’s daughter would marry any man who could best her at wrestling, provided he put up ten horses as proof of his intentions? Esen, who greeted him, said it was. Khutulun threw him even faster than she had Bolad, and once he was back on his feet, he slapped her shoulder and laughed, and said it was worth the loss of the horses three times over for having such a story to tell.

  “You’re building quite the herd,” Qutuchin said that night. “What happens if you meet a man you want?”

  “Then I pray that he’s a good wrestler,” Khutulun said. “And if not, I pray his taste in horses will cushion the blow.”

  ◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊

  Years passed, and Khutulun’s legend grew—as, indeed, did her herd. By her twentieth birthday, she had won thousands of horses from hundreds of men. She sold and traded many, and those she kept were the strongest, hardiest and most beautiful of all. In battle, she rode at her father’s right hand, her keen eyes seeing patterns in the chaos. She was known for taking valuable captives, darting into the fray and back, her prize slung over her saddle. It was Khutulun whose advice Kaidu sought above that of Buri and Altan and Esen; Khutulun who shared his jokes; Khutulun who, at Qutuchin’s marriage, gifted their sister with two hundred horses. She had enemies, attracted envy and rumour in equal portion at least to praise, but so long as she had Kaidu’s support, her position was unassailable.

  Until the return of Mongke-Temur, khan of the Golden Horde.

  Though the grey mare she had once coveted had long since been replaced, Khutulun recognised her lines in the gelding Mongke-Temur now rode. He arrived unexpectedly at midday while Khutulun was fletching arrows, and she watched patiently from a distance as her father was found. By then, she was accustomed to inclusion in Kaidu’s councils, and expected him to call her in, but when she caught his eye, he shook his head and took Mongke-Temur alone into the ger. Khutulun felt a chill up her spine. She went back to her arrows, but the feeling of unease persisted. What did Mongke-Temur want?

  It was dusk when one of her younger nephews ran to summon her to the ger. Khutulun wiped her hands and followed him, her face a mask of carefully sculpted stone. The second she stepped inside, she could tell that the men had been drinking; the heavy fermented smell of airag hung in the air, and Mongke-Temur’s normally sharp eyes were glazed.

  “Come sit with me, little moon,” Kaidu said. Khutulun’s head jerked up in shock; it had been years since her father had last called her that, and never in such a setting. Mongke-Temur chuckled. Khutulun sat, her spine arrow-straight with outrage.

  “What is it, Father?” she asked.

  It was Mongke-Temur who answered. “A month past, my son-in-law was widowed when my daughter died in childbed. He is a northerner, a Rus prince and a Christian, but has spent years living among our people, and wishes his sons to be raised by a Mongol mother. Had I more daughters to spare, I would bid one of them take their sister’s place. But as I do not, in honour of the great love you bear your father, and the friendship he in turn owes me, you will do this thing instead, cementing an alliance of advantage to us both.”

  “Were Qutuchin still unwed,” her father said, softly, “I would ask it first of her. But she is not.”

  And that leaves me. The words hung unspoken between them. Fury burned in Khutulun, but she yoked it fiercely, summoning the same intensity of purpose that she used in battle. She did not ask why Mongke-Temur had chosen her father, out of all the Golden Horde’s allies, to furnish him with a daughter; there was no point. He had seen her fight a half-dozen times since the capture of Nomukhan—had seen at least four of his own men wrestle for her hand, and lose—and knew exactly what he was asking from her.

  The question was, did he mean the match as humiliation? Did he have some deeper purpose in proposing such an alliance? Or was he simply arrogant enough to think that the offer of a Rus prince would turn her head?

  “What is his name?” asked Khutulun.

  “Theodore Qara,” said Mongke-Temur. Theodore the Black. “Prince of Smolensk and Yaroslav.”

  “And does Theodore know of me?” said Khutulun, rolling the strange syllables of his given name against her tongue. “Does he know the conditions of my hand?”

  “He does,” said Mongke-Temur, with a glance at Kaidu. “And he accepts them. He is a skilled wrestler, for a Rus.”

  “And if he loses?” Khutulun persisted.

  Kaidu met his daughter’s gaze. “He will not,” he said, and Khutulun clenched her fists until her nails cut her palms.

  ◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊

  Mongke-Temur left at dawn, stating his intention to return with Theodore inside of two weeks. Khutulun watched him ride away, her fingers itching to put an arrow between his shoulders.

  “This alliance will help us all,” said Kaidu. He didn’t look at her.

  Khutulun nodded tightly, then walked away. She spent the rest of the day with her horses, who expected nothing of her company beyond a scratch behind the ears, and wished, with vehement selfishness, that Qutuchin had never married.

  When night fell, Esen found her sitting beside an old mare. The horse whuffed gently at his approach, and when he came to a halt, Khutulun said, without looking up, “You know, then?”

  “Everyone does.” He hesitated, then sat down a few feet away, toying idly with the grass. The stars overhead were bright and clean, like salt spilled on fine silk. “Buri laughed so hard, he walked into a post.”

  Khutulun snorted. “Buri has all the sense and grace of a one-winged chicken.”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  For a moment, they were silent. Then Khutulun said, softly, “I won this mare from the first man who ever wrestled for my hand. She was the pride of Bolad’s old herd, and became the founder of mine. There’s meaning in that, I think, and I keep her to honour it.” She turned to Esen, tense with anger. “Is my legacy worth so much less than hers, that it can be bartered so cheaply?”

  Esen sighed. “Our father chose Altan’s wife, and Buri’s. He chose Qutuchin’s husband, and when I marry, he will arrange that, too. For all the respect he has given you, is it really so hard to imagine that in this one thing, your will is worth less than his?”

  “If this were truly his will,” said Khutulun, bitterly, “I would respect it. But Mongke-Temur came to him, Esen. What do we want with a Rus prince? What could anyone want? We conquered them, and they pay us tribute. No matter his riches or his standing, how is that an alliance worth my freedom?”

  To that, Esen had no answer.

  ◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊

  The dust cloud stirred by Theodore and Mongke-Temur’s arrival was so great that at first, Khutulun thought they were under attack. How many men had come to witness her humiliation? How many would see her brought low? She watched the approach from a spot on the hill, but it wasn’t until the party came closer that she realised the reason for their great numbers: Theodore had brought horses. Unmounted, unsaddled, young and old, geldings, mares, foals, and stallions—a whole herd on the move, their numbers in the high hundreds, most the distinctive takhi favoured by her people, but others with more varied bloodlines. Heavy northern horses with spotted coats; small, quick horses with neat hooves and wide eyes; slender, deep-chested horses the colour of rare metal, all of them running together, a display so beautiful that, despite everything, she felt her heart lift.

  When she walked down to meet Theodore, the gathering crowd made way for her like grain before a scythe. The whispers and laughter would cut at her if she let them, so she tuned them out, focussing instead on the three people who mattered most: Mongke-Temur, her father, and Theodore Qara.

  The Rus prince was not a young man, but she had known that already; by Kaidu’s account, he was already in his fifth decade of life, and had now outlived not one, but two wives, the first of Rus birth, and the second
Mongke-Temur’s daughter. Between them, they had given him three sons—the pressure of ensuring succession, at least, was one that Khutulun wouldn’t bear—whose Christian names felt odd and lumpy in her mouth, like uncooked dough. She had asked about Mongke-Temur’s daughter, too, and been told only that she had converted to her husband’s faith, taking the name Anna as a sign of her devotion. Who she had been before that, though, was information her father either could not or would not share, as if the loss of one woman’s name was not worth the effort of inquiring after it.

  Khutulun would not give up her name. Once married, it would be all she had left of herself.

  “Khutulun Khatun,” said Theodore. His tone was deep and respectful, though his accent slid oddly over the vowels. His face was tanned and lined above a trimmed, brown beard; he was tall, too, long-limbed and broad in the shoulders. Khutulun looked him over with a wrestler’s eye, and was not unimpressed.

  “Theodore Qara,” she said. And then, when neither Kaidu nor Mongke-Temur moved to mediate the conversation, “You know my terms?”

  “I do,” he said, and gestured to where his herd was fenced and tethered. “And in honour of the occasion, I have decided to up the wager.” He pitched his voice to carry. “If I lose, you will have a thousand horses. On my honour as the Prince of Yaroslav and Smolensk.”

  His words stirred a murmur of surprise from those gathered. Khutulun gazed at the horses, and though she had promised discipline, a small smile tugged her mouth upwards at the edges.

  “That is generous indeed,” she said. “I accept.”

  Theodore gestured to the open space behind them, an arena already ringing by spectators. “Shall we set to it, then?”

  Khutulun led the way onto the field.

  As she walked, she stripped off her coat, rolling her shoulders in the crisp air. In all her bouts of wrestling for marriage, she had never once danced beforehand, but she did so now, moving effortlessly through the forms, soothing herself with the fluid ritual of bokh. She was surprised—pleasantly so—when Theodore joined in. His bare arms were pale and ropey, the skin wrinkled in places, but the muscles beneath were hard as iron. When they came to a halt and bowed, his strange eyes were determined.