by Harold Lamb
Her dark eyes were troubled, and Kirdy felt that she was indeed afraid. These three souls from the steppes were restless and alert, as he was. Intent on his purpose, he had no misgivings, and he did not think anyone but Nada knew that he was a Cossack.
"Go to the captain of the Franks, the man called Margeret," she cried. "I have talked with him, and he is a warrior who holds honor dear. Go to him and ask a written paper that will let me pass through the gates with three men."
Kirdy smiled.
"If the tsar has forbidden—"
"Who knows what the tsar has said? Margeret commands the first company of the bodyguards. His men are Franks, and they will obey an order from him. Go at once—oh, slay whom you will—break your sword and be cut down, if you will. Serve me only in this one thing, by the salt we shared—"
Seeing him thoughtful and unmoved, Nada stamped a slender, booted foot angrily.
"Fool! You will not forgive me because I played with you. But you will play the Cossack, and ride on and draw your sword and strike until life is cut out of you. Then you will be no more than a marionette that is tossed from the theatre. Abide by the oath, my wooden warrior, but bring me my paper before the dawn."
Chapter V The Black Hour
Alone once more in the moonlit street, Kirdy reflected that he had been outwitted by the girl Nada. She had drawn his secret from him, had kept Karai with her—and might betray him to the very officer he was seeking. Nevertheless, he decided to go to Margeret. The captain of the imperial bodyguard would know better than anyone else the movements of the false Dmitri—might even be called upon to attend the impostor. And Nada's request would give him an excuse for arousing the officer at this hour of early morning.
He kept to the deep shadow in the narrow streets, with ears alert for the tread and clatter of the watch. He heard nothing except a flurry of hoofs when riders galloped through an adjoining alley, and a man laughed recklessly. Turning quickly, he beheld three black horses speeding through a lane of gleaming snow and the fluttering cloaks of men riding like fiends.
All the while the discordant tocsin of the bells rang out overhead, as if the great towers were calling to the graves to give up their dead.
Sleepy Muscovites stared at him in the taproom of the tavern and he was directed to an upper chamber, where the deep voice of the French captain was unmistakable enough. A Muscovite servant opened the door, candle in hand, and Kirdy sniffed at strangling fumes of charcoal. A brazier stood near the disordered bed upon which Margeret sat in shirt and trousers, his ruddy face blotched and gleaming with sweat.
At first Kirdy thought he was drunk. Margaret cursed steadily, shifting from one language to another as the impulse took him and paying no attention at all to his guest.
"He is sick," the servant observed tranquilly, "in the belly."
The Frenchman shivered, and his teeth clicked spasmodically. Racked by chills and the fever he straddled his bed and shouted for the sword that the servant would not give him.
"What is he saying?" Kirdy asked.
The serf yawned and listened.
"My master has been near to giving up his soul. The pains racked him when he came in. Then he grew worse all at once. That was how it was, your Excellency!"
"He'll die, right enough, in these fumes." The smoldering charcoal made Kirdy's head swim. "Carry the coals outside and build a fire."
The servant blinked bleared eyes and considered the matter at length.
"Why does your honor trouble about all that? If God sends my master death—no help for it. Besides, he appears to be stronger, now."
Kirdy's answer was to thrust his fist through the glazed paper window and kick the servant heartily. In his present state the foreign captain was incapable of signing any order at all; and the Cossack did not propose to watch him strangle in the foul air. So he forced Margeret to lie prone and covered him with all the quilts and skins in the chamber.
Grumbling, the servant brought wood and kindled a clean blaze on the hearth, eyeing askance the tall stranger who looked like a nobleman from
Cathay and paced the chamber angrily. Margeret ceased swearing and began to breathe more regularly. By the time the first gray light had crept upon the white roofs he displayed an interest in his visitor.
"He asks," explained the servant, stumbling out of a doze, "what your honor does in his room."
Kirdy explained carefully what he sought from the captain, and the shaggy Muscovite interpreted the strange jargon that master and man had hit on for mutual intercourse.
"He says your honor is mistaken. There was no order to close the gates. You can ride forth with your young lady at any hour."
"Look!" Kirdy hauled him to the broken window and pointed through it. The tavern was near the end of a street opening upon a drill ground and one the gates of the Kremyl wall was visible, a knot of halberdiers clustered before it. The gate was shut, beyond a doubt.
The man blinked and scratched his head.
"Well, that is how it is. But it doesn't matter. My master says you can go through, no one will stop you."
"Devil take the fellow!" Kirdy thought and added aloud: "The lady must leave Moscow without delay; she has a quarrel with a boyarin and is afraid. She must have an order from your master. It has nothing to do with me, but I promised to bear her the order."
Margeret evidently knew her, because he smiled and nodded.
"Nada—a pretty lass. She watched me drill the pikemen by the Archangel. Nay, my lord, when I can stand I will do myself the honor of escorting her."
The closing of the gates seemed to puzzle him, but he dismissed it with a shrug, the fever still burning in his veins. Then he glanced at Kirdy, one eyebrow raised.
Near at hand had sounded the clang and slither of steel in conflict— unmistakable to either Cossack or Frenchman. Voices were raised in sudden tumult. The street below was still in deep shadow, and Kirdy was trying to make out the nature of the fighting when he heard hurried steps on the stairs.
An elderly man, with shrewd, pinched features, stepped into the room, hugging a black velvet mantle around his thin body. When he saw Margeret he looked relieved—took a bit of snuff with a flourish and stared curiously at the young warrior garbed as a Mongol.
Margeret addressed him rapidly in French, and waved his hand from the newcomer to Kirdy.
"M'sieur Cathayan, this is the good M'sieur Bertrand from Kassa—a merchant by trade, a philosopher from choice. I have not the advantage of knowing your name—"
"The White Falcon." Kirdy smiled.
"Ah, Bertrand, this White Falcon—whatever he may be—has, I believe, ministered to me in good case. But what brings you here at this infernal cockcrow?
"Listen!" The merchant held up his hand.
Kirdy, already at the window, saw a troop of horsemen spurring into the street in pursuit of human beings, half-clad and wailing, a man and woman. The leading riders came up with the man, who turned with drawn sword. A pass or two of weapons, and the fugitive went down silently with his skull split open. The woman screamed, and Kirdy swore under his breath.
She had been ridden down by the horses, and one of the soldiers, leaning from the saddle as he passed, drove his saber through her body.
"Nom d’un nom!" the merchant whispered, at his side.
"But what has happened, Bertrand?" demanded Margeret, trying to get out from under the covers.
The merchant took snuff again, glanced over the rose-tinted roofs and the gilded spires at the red glow in the east.
"Ah," he said, and considered, "the festival of mirth has ended, the carnival of death begun, vieux!" To Kirdy he added, shaking his thin head. "The tsar and Basmanof have been slain in one of the galleries of the Kremyl."
Chapter VI The Trail
When the trail is clear the horse will follow it, even in darkness. If the trail be hidden, the dog will smell it out. But when the trail is at an end horse and dog look to their master, the man.
Monsieur Bertrand
was a mild soul and a daring trader. He bought in Moscow damask stuffs, silks and red leather, paid for them in silver, and took his chances of robbery and shipwreck with all the equanimity of the philosopher that Margeret had named him. Having traveled for years along the rivers of Muscovy, he spoke the language well, and knew a deal of the half-oriental and wholly—to his thinking—barbaric court of the tsar. While Kirdy listened intently and the sick captain swore, he unfolded the tale of the Kremyl.
"It has been, messieurs, a night of more bloodshed than judgment. Only yesterday I met the unfortunate Dmitri in all health and hardihood upon the steps of the Kasna—that is how they call their treasury. He was at the head of some followers who were bearing forth certain jewels and moneys.
"A merchant at court must have his ear sharpened to catch intrigue. For weeks I have perceived a conspiracy against the tsar—" the worthy Bertrand pronounced it "Zar"—"and Dmitri must have been drunk as a trooper if he knew nothing of it. Some of the older princes and one Michael Tatikof lead the conspirators. Dmitri drank deep and laughed and feasted his eyes on jewels and fine horses. Good!
"Late in the evening this Tatikof, who had been from the city for several days, appeared at the head of a company of boyars. They concealed among their horses a sleigh. Upon this sleigh rested a casket. And, messieurs if you were to think for a thousand days you would never hit upon the meaning of that casket."
With a half smile on his thin lips, he paused to glance at the two lis-teners—he spoke in French, translating rapidly for Kirdy's benefit when he noticed the youth's eager interest.
"It was the coffin of the real Dmitri, the son of Ivan the Terrible. In the coffin reposed the body of the child dressed as when he had been murdered—even a toy in his skeleton hand. C’est incroyable—unbelievable—but this is—la Russie! Tatikof and others had suspected for some time that Dmitri was an impostor; but in what way could they prove their suspicions? Dmitri, the false Dmitri, had shown a jeweled cross; he had been acknowledged by the empress-mother; moreover, he had the army behind him—"
The Frenchman shrugged one shoulder toward Margeret, and, with a tentative glance at Kirdy, went on:
"Tatikof exhibited the body of the boy to the elder princes while the false Dmitri was reveling in the palace. The dead lay in judgment upon the living.
"Good! It was decided to slay the false tsar. You see, messieurs, it is an easier matter to prove a dead man an impostor than a living man a fraud.
And the army, except for the palace guards and the Moscow militia, was in the steppes chasing some Cossacks. A fool's mission.
"And Dmitri died like the reckless fool he was. Sound asleep. His gossip Basmanof was awake. Tatikof stabbed Basmanof in a gallery leading to the quarters of the tsar. Then the boyars entered the sleeping chamber of the false Dmitri, and now the impostor lies dead—"
"Name of a dog!" shouted the captain. "Dmitri, I do not believe he was a pretender!"
"My dear captain, he was a consummate and daring liar. In all the world, where will you find such another? Saint Denis—he had himself proclaimed emperor, and took a wife of the blood from Poland!"
"But, do you believe the conspirators, with their skeleton?"
Bertrand glanced at Kirdy covertly and took snuff.
"My dear Margeret," he said under his breath in French, "what do you or I know? I believe the Muscovite princes because they have the upper hand."
"We took oath to—"
"Be loyal to this Dmitri? Eh, well, he is now dead. I can admire his spirit, but I condemn his lack of wisdom. If he had not made a mock of churches and said his prayers to a ribald mask he would not have made enemies of the stiff old boyars. He gave his soul to the devil for a stake to gamble with."
Margeret, who had been tearing the coverlet between strong fingers, shook his head impatiently.
"But the palace guard!"
"Some of your sheep-headed archers were cut down. Be grateful, my friend, that you were not on duty. Saint Denis! I believe your dinner was tampered with!"
"The militia—"
"Slept and snored, but now has been won over by the boyars. It guards the gates and scratches its thick head. Meanwhile the boyars are hunting down the followers of the false Dmitri."
Going to the window, he gazed with some curiosity at bodies of halberdiers and mounted nobles passing through the square at the end of the street. Smoke was rising from different points in the city and veiling the clear light of early morning.
"I must go," he said thoughtfully, "to pay my respects to the victors, at the palace."
"And I," Margeret muttered, "to my men."
"Impossible! Your ailment is providential. Even if you could stand, you were better between the sheets. Margeret, you are an excellent soldier but an execrable diplomat."
"God's thunder! If my archers are to be put to the point of the sword—"
"Content you! I saw them penned in barracks. The boyars know the worth of your fire-eaters. Lie perdu until I can bring you fresh news."
Weakness rather than conviction forced Margeret to stretch himself on the bed again; but when Bertrand bowed and moved to the door, Kirdy stepped to his side.
"Merchant, take me with you!"
Bertrand tapped his snuffbox reflectively and pursed his lips.
"Ah, my prince, worthy people will avoid the streets this day. Why would you come?"
Kirdy swept his arm toward the rising sun.
"Thence rode I to set eyes on the great lord the Muscovites. If I may not behold him in life, I would see him in death."
After a second glance at the Mongol, the Frenchman bowed assent, rather grudgingly. He was a judge of character, and he discovered in Kirdy's eyes a certain smoldering eagerness that puzzled him.
The two took their way over the trampled snow, seeing much and saying little, each occupied with his own thoughts.
Kirdy reflected that a passport written and signed by the Captain Mar-geret would be worse than worthless, now, to Nada. He wasted no time in surprise over the end of the false Dmitri; it had happened and now he meant to see for himself the body of the impostor, so that he could say to the Cossacks without any shadow of doubt that the traitor who had cost the lives of thousands of the brothers was dead.
So thinking, he paid little heed to the bodies that lay in the narrow streets. At times they passed by a house that was beset by soldiers. Then Bertrand hung back and would have fetched a circle to avoid the armed men, but Kirdy pushed through the mob, saying that nothing was to be gained by slinking like dogs. In fact, the soldiery, seeing his erect head and imperious manner, often cleared a way for him and the Frankish merchant.
"Eh, it is terrible," Bertrand sighed, watched men run into a door under upflung shields, while arrows flickered down from narrow windows. "It is a massacre of the Poles."
There was real regret behind his sigh, because the shrewd trader foresaw that this slaughter of the visitors would be ample excuse for the ambitious and powerful King Sigismund to lead his armies into Muscovy, and that a great war would follow on the heels of civil conflict—with more plundering than profit for himself.
The more they penetrated the noisy streets, the less they were able to learn of events.
An officer of the town watch glared at them suspiciously and was utterly astonished when they told him the tsar was dead.
"Okh—who would give orders if not our great illustrious prince? How can he be dead?"
Pulling at Kirdy's arm, Bertrand hurried on, only to be stopped by a drunken halberdier who presented his pike and roared drowsily:
"Stand—enemies of the faith! Put down your weapons and bend the head!"
Him Kirdy quieted with a gold piece and passed on before the slow-thinking warrior reflected that more plunder might be had where the ducat came from. They saw a whole colony of Jews scurrying like hares into a dark alley where a barricade was being put up—a flimsy rampart of tables, benches and posts.
"It is a dark hour, my lords!" a blind
beggar declaimed, shaking his shaggy head. "Ai-a, who knows what word is true and what is false? A priest said we had a new tsar—long life and glory to him. Give a copper for bread, my lords!"
"The belly endures no interregnum," murmured Bertrand. "Ah, here is a client who knows me."
He accosted a bearded noble who was forcing his way on horseback toward one of the Kremyl gates followed by a wild-looking array of fur-clad slaves and men-at-arms. This Muscovite knew nothing at all of events, save that he had been summoned to attendance by the councilors. But he allowed Kirdy and the merchant to pass through the palace gate with him and that was something gained.
Here there was less fighting but little more enlightenment. Kirdy saw a young woman with painted cheeks and mincing step—a being in voluminous velvets and silk garments, who yet looked at him out of haggard eyes, led away between two files of guardsmen. With her were two elder men who walked proudly and held hat and gloves as precisely as if they were bound for a court audience instead of jail.
"The bride of the false Dmitri," Bertrand whispered. "The princess of Sandomir. A pawn, thrust in advance of king and bishops."
"She does not weep," Kirdy commented with approval.
The way into the tsar's quarters was barred to them, and they learned that the boyars were in council. It was a dwarf of the troupe of buffoons who told them where the false Dmitri lay—a jester of the company Kirdy had seen the night before.
"Nay, Uncle," the little man laughed, "which Dmitri doth your soberness seek? The skeleton or the corpse?"
"What difference?" retorted the merchant with a grimace.
"By the holy angels, a mighty difference! One that was no more than a fistful of bones yester-eve—that a starved jackal would turn from—now is an honorable relic, and worketh miracles by account of the priests. The other, that was our celestial Prince but a day agone, is now accursed cold meat that an honest butcher would spit upon."
"Where lies he—this false Dmitri?" asked Kirdy.