Chapter 8
Peterkin ran frantically to the end of the street, then darted into a doorway. He craned his neck to see what had happened to Tanya, but already the press of people had hidden them from view. He stared wildly around, wondering what he could do. He was sensible enough to realise that he could not help Tanya by going back to her now, but what else could he do? She was probably even now being dragged away to prison, and what could one boy do against all the might of the Tsar? He blinked back the tears and dashed a grubby hand angrily across his eyes. He must get help from somewhere, somehow. He sent a fervent prayer up to the Virgin, crossing himself, and wishing he had led a more exemplary life, for she would surely have nothing to do with a thief. He stared blindly in front of him, then stiffened suddenly in disbelief. His gaze was riveted on a tall fair head, towering above the rest of the crowd around him. Sending up a soundless prayer of thanks for this miracle, he darted forward, shouting.
‘Nicholas, Nicholas, it is you, it is. Stop please, it’s me, Peterkin.’ He grabbed hold of the giant’s arm, shaking him. For a moment, Nicholas looked down at him blankly, then his gaze cleared.
‘Peterkin, of course. Thank God. Where is Tanya? Take me to her at once. I came because I heard of the execution and thought I might find her in the crowd. I have been half out of my mind with worry since I managed to escape from the convent.’
Haltingly, Peterkin told the big man of the events of the last few days, casting anxious glances at his face to see how he was taking the news. Nicholas’s shoulders bowed in despair, then he pulled the lad, almost whisking him off his feet.
‘Show me where,’ he demanded curtly. Peterkin led him to the end of the street, but by then, there was no sign of either Tanya or Dostoyevskiy. Nicholas looked around him hopelessly, but Peterkin began to question some of the crowd still loitering nearby and was lucky enough to find someone who had witnessed the event. The man told him that the Count and the lady had had what looked like a violent quarrel, then she had left with him quietly, in the direction of the Kremlin.
Nicholas and Peterkin stared at one another in dismay. What could they do now? If Tanya had been taken to the dungeons underneath that fortress, what possible hope could they have of ever getting her out?
‘Well, we can’t do anything today, that’s for sure,’ said Peterkin. ‘Perhaps we had better go back to my place and work out some sort of plan. I knew I should never have let her come to this part of town, but she wouldn’t listen to me.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ replied Nicholas kindly. ‘When she gets a bee in her bonnet, she won’t listen to anyone. You are right, we must work out some sort of plan. Perhaps tomorrow you could go to the Kremlin, get inside somehow, and see if you can find out anything about her. You would be far less conspicuous than me. Come on.’
Despondently, they walked back through the winding streets until they reached Peterkin’s home. Once there, Nicholas told of the piece of luck that had enabled him to escape from such overwhelming odds back at the convent. He had already killed several of the Streltsy but was rapidly being overcome when help arrived in the form of two Kremlin guards passing by the open door through which Tanya and Peterkin had fled. Nicholas had managed to fight his way towards the door and yelled for help. The guards had recognised the uniform of the hated Streltsy and, without further ado, had flung themselves into the fray. With the aid of his two new friends, the Streltsy were rapidly despatched; unfortunately, of the evil Father Stevanov, there was no sign, and although they had searched the convent thoroughly, he seemed to have disappeared into thin air.
On Nicholas giving them an edited version of what had happened there that night, omitting any mention of Tanya of course, the soldiers had crossed themselves and announced their intention of ridding the neighbourhood of such a scab in its midst. They had promised to try to inform the Tsar of what had been going on, and he would undoubtedly ensure that the convent would never again be used for such unholy practices. Nicholas had thanked his new friends and then tried to follow Tanya’s trail. Needless to say, he had had no luck and had come to Prince Mensherikovsky’s execution in the hope that Tanya would be there. That she had been and that he had been unable to spirit her away to safety weighed heavily on his spirits.
For the rest of the day, and half way through the night, they wrestled with the problem of rescuing Tanya but had to reject most of the wild ideas forthcoming. Feeling quite worn out with watching Nicholas pacing up and down, running his fingers through his hair until it stood on end, Peterkin finally suggested that the best idea would be for him to go to the Kremlin the following day, on the off-chance that he might be able to pick up some news there. Having decided to pursue this course of action, they tried to get some sleep, although with indifferent success on either part.
However, bright and early next morning, a rather bleary-eyed Peterkin set off towards the Kremlin, accompanied by Nicholas as far as the outskirts. They had decided it would be far safer for Peterkin to go inside, as no one would take any notice of a small, ragged urchin. Abjuring Peterkin to be careful, Nicholas disappeared inside a tavern, and the boy set off alone towards the forbidding gates of the Kremlin. He had no difficulty getting into the outer courtyard, for all sorts of people, rich and poor, were milling about the gates. Seeing a soldier lounging against the wall, more or less alone, Peterkin sidled over towards him and began to chat about the execution the day before, saying what a good thing it had been to see one so rich and proud humbled. The soldier glanced cursorily at him and told him to clear off in no uncertain terms. Peterkin then pulled out the bottle of wine he had secreted underneath his jerkin and, after taking a swig, offered it to the soldier. The man, with a quick glance round, grabbed the bottle and drank deeply, wiping his mouth and sighing.
‘Thanks. I could just do with that. I’ve been up all night standing guard and am just waiting to be dismissed. That’s good wine you have there.’
‘Have some more,’ offered Peterkin, and the soldier complied, very nearly draining the bottle, the wine spilling down the front of his tunic.
‘Who have you been guarding?’ asked Peterkin in a casual voice.
‘Oh, nobody very special. I wanted to get on the guard for that red-headed piece they brought in last night. Now that would have been a bit of luck, especially if you could get into the room. Not that there would be much chance of that though,’ he added regretfully, and belched. ‘Some lady or other she’s supposed to be, although you’d never think so from the way she was dressed. But a good looker – whew!’ He scowled suddenly. ‘What’s it to you anyway?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Peterkin, shrugging. ‘Just passing the time of day. Go on about this fancy piece then. Don’t see many of them around these days.’ He sniggered and dug the man in the ribs. ‘Perhaps, with a strapping man like yourself, she wouldn’t have been quite so much the lady, eh? What’s she supposed to have done?’
The soldier scratched his head. ‘Treason, so I’ve heard, although I don’t really know for sure. One thing I do know, though, whoever wants her out of the way wants it fast, because I’ve heard tell they’re taking her before the Tsar today, and she’s to be sentenced straight away. And that’ll mean death!’ He picked at his teeth and spat reflectively.
Peterkin went pale and stared in horror at the man. At first, his spirits had risen at his luck in actually finding someone who knew something about Tanya’s fate, but now he was plunged into despair. So soon! Obviously Dostoyevskiy must have taken one of his rare dislikes to Tanya – come to think of it, she had looked pretty queer when he’d mentioned his name. Perhaps, there was some old hate between them, and now he was wasting no time getting her out of the way.
The soldier looked at him suspiciously.
‘What are you looking so horror struck about?’ he asked. ‘And what are you doing poking your nose around anyway? Who are you?’
Peterkin wasted no time in explanations but darted quickly away, and, ignoring the soldier’s shout, was soon lost amongst the crowd. He made his way back to the tavern as quickly as he could and was soon recounting his conversation to Nicholas. Nicholas looked grave and shook his head.
‘It’s bad,’ he said heavily and sank his head into his hands. ‘They are obviously rushing this thing through. We haven’t much time, we must think of something.’ He raised a haggard face and stared unseeingly at Peterkin. ‘Once she’s sentenced, there’ll be nobody allowed to see her but the priest.’
They stared at each other in silence, then suddenly, Peterkin started up. ‘What did you just say?’ he asked quickly.
Nicholas looked surprised. ‘Nothing, did I?’
‘Something about a priest.’
‘Oh yes, well, they’ll have to let her have one, won’t they? The condemned are always allowed a priest. So what?’
‘Well, if we could find out when she is to be . . . well, you know, executed, the priest usually goes an hour or so before. What if we could take his place?’
Nicholas stared at him with mingled hope and respect.
‘Do you think we could do it, though?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘There would be so many pitfalls. And anyway, only one of us could go. What would we do when we got there?’
‘Look, just stop making objections and listen a moment. If you wore a priest’s robe, and I went with you as your assistant, they might swallow it, then Tanya could change clothes with me and go out with you. If the guards are all as stupid as that soldier I questioned today, we might just pull it off. It’s worth a try, surely? Can you think of a better plan?’
Nicholas shook his head gloomily. ‘No, I’m not much of a hand at planning this sort of thing. Give me the action, and I’ll do just fine. What do you suggest then?’
‘It will take a lot of working out,’ replied Peterkin. ‘We’ll have to find out when she’s been sentenced, which priest is going to see her, and how to keep him out of the way – there’s too many ifs in it for my liking. I think the best thing to do would be to go back to my place and ask around if anyone has any contacts inside the Kremlin. They’re an evil lot, there’s sure to be someone. If we can get some inside information, it will make things a whole lot easier.’
On Nicholas’s agreement, they made their way back through the narrow twisting streets and alleyways to Peterkin’s dingy room. Then leaving Nicholas, who was eating ravenously of his small store of food, the boy slipped off to see Old Tolov, thinking that if anyone could help in their predicament, it would be that wily old villain.
He was back within the hour, with good news. Old Tolov had a brother-in-law whose cousin was a guard in the Kremlin, and he had promised to see what he could do – for a price. At first, he had shown an unwonted interest in what Peterkin had to do with the Princess Mensherikovsky but had accepted that he was acting as an agent for someone else and that that person would surely reward Tolov well for any information he could give. Peterkin shrugged aside Nicholas’s expostulation that he had no money at all and said he could easily pick a pocket. Nicholas looked at him with renewed respect, revising his earlier opinion that Peterkin was only a child to be discounted.
Although they could do nothing until they heard from Tolov, neither could bear to sit around doing nothing, for thoughts of Tanya in all sorts of terrible situations would immediately drift through their minds. After half an hour of watching Nicholas stride up and down, stooping his great height to avoid hitting his head on the low roof, Peterkin suggested they walk to the Kremlin again and hang around there in the hope of hearing something of interest. Nicholas readily agreed, and they set off through the chilly evening air, shivering as the bitter wind scattered a few snowflakes, their breath clouding before them. There were very few people about, and they were unable to learn anything new, but they had a mug of ale in a crowded tavern, and Peterkin was able to put the journey to good use by picking a well-lined pocket. They then bought a drink of hot mulled wine to warm them and took hasty leave of the place before their unknown benefactor became aware of his loss.
Neither of them slept well that night either, and they felt unrefreshed and stale when the wintry dawn brought a hint of light into the Stygian darkness of the room. They ate the last of the food, Nicholas’s great appetite of the day before having depleted their store considerably. Leaving the giant to his pacing, Peterkin went off to replenish the larder, knowing it was too early for Tolov to have learnt anything yet.
Midday found them hanging around the inevitable crowds in the Kremlin courtyard, but they had no luck and had to run for it when the guard Peterkin had questioned the day before shouted at them threateningly. They dared not risk getting caught, as then Tanya’s last hope would be gone. They spent most of the day wandering round miserably, envisaging Tanya’s fate. Towards evening, however, a small urchin darted up to say Tolov wanted to see them, and they set off at once, hope springing in their hearts.
Tolov greeted them and offered hot wine to warm them, which they drank gratefully, and the old man looked curiously at Nicholas, although he said nothing.
‘Well,’ asked Nicholas impatiently. ‘What have you learned, quickly man.’
Tolov scowled, and Peterkin nudged Nicholas warningly, for the old thief was used to people crawling and whining around him and obviously didn’t like his tone of voice.
‘Show me the colour of your money,’ he grated ‘and then perhaps I’ll tell you what I know.’
His scowl lifted miraculously when Peterkin produced several gold coins purloined from their stolen purse, and he rubbed his hands together, smiling.
‘That’s better, that’s better. Well, never let it be said that old Tolov doesn’t keep a bargain. I’ve done my work well. The wench was taken before the Tsar today and was apparently in audience – private audience, so I believe – for some time.’ He sniggered and leered suggestively, and Peterkin had to grip Nicholas’s arm hard to stop him rising furiously.
‘Yes, well, I don’t know what exactly happened,’ he continued, ‘but it would seem that Count Dostoyevskiy influenced the Tsar a great deal, and she was finally convicted of treason. Undoubtedly she will meet the same fate as her husband. The date is set for four days from now, although I don’t know the time yet. Find me a nice fat purse, and I’ll find out and also which priest is attending that day, and at what time.’
Peterkin thanked him and passed over the money. Tolov bit the gold coin with blackened teeth and promised to let them know directly he had any news, and they made their way home slowly, their hearts heavy with dread at the fate which hung over Tanya’s head. Although expected, it was nevertheless a heavy blow, and their chances of success in their mad venture seemed terrifyingly slim.
The next two days dragged interminably. Nicholas hardly left their room for fear of missing any news; he sat with bowed shoulders, staring into space. Never had he felt so helpless, for his great strength was of no use in this situation. Peterkin made several forays into the town, coming back with food and drink and enough cash to pay Tolov for his information without dipping into the few coins they had left. He had been taking far greater risks these last few days and had narrowly escaped capture the night before when he had broken into a linen drapers shop and stolen some clothes suitable for him to wear in his role of clerk, with a cloak and large hood to hide his face. The owner of the shop had awoken and almost caught him, and his furious roars must have roused half the neighbourhood. Anyone less fleet of foot might well have been caught, but he had decided to lay low for a while. He had been unable to obtain a priest’s robe, not having the faintest idea where he would find one, but had applied to old Tolov, who had seemed to think there was no problem and had promised to procure one for him.
They had decided to say that Peterkin had been given permission to accompany the priest to take down Tanya’s will, and any last requests, as a special tribute to a great lady. They must just trust in the apparently inherent stupidity of the Kremlin guards. If the plan didn’t work, they would at least have tried their utmost.
The long awaited summons came on the evening of the third day, the last evening before Tanya’s sentence was due to be carried out. As Peterkin had had to restrain Nicholas several times from storming over to Tolov’s den of thieves and choking the news out of him, it was with great relief that he followed behind the ruffian who led them to their rendezvous.
On Peterkin producing the required money, Tolov handed over a priest’s robe which he said should hopefully fit Nicholas passably well, then told them what he had learned. Tanya was in a dungeon underneath the Kremlin, apparently one of the lower and more unsavoury ones. As far as he knew, she had not been tortured, neither had she been reprieved and was still due for execution soon after dawn the day after tomorrow. The only visitor she had received was Dostoyevskiy, which seemed rather peculiar as personal attention from him was most unusual. Tolov leered again, but at the dangerous gleam in Nicholas’s eye, hastily continued. Father Koriev was the priest who was to attend the following evening and was quite unbribable according to him. As they had practically no money left by now, they passed over that and nodded for him to continue. Tolov told them that his informant was on guard duty tomorrow and would do his best to let them pass if they greased his fist. Then he shrugged his shoulders and leaned back. Apart from the fact that the priest was expected the following evening, that was all he could do for them.
They thanked Tolov for all he had done for them, for although he was an unsavoury rogue, nevertheless without him any plan would have been impossible. He grinned and wished them luck, shaking his head disparagingly as they hurried off, for privately he thought they hadn’t a chance.
They went straight back to their room and sat down to plan their strategy for the following day. They decided they would find out tomorrow where the priest lived, and what route he would take to the Kremlin, then they would lay in wait for him, overpower him, and leave him gagged and bound in a quiet alley where he would spend an uncomfortable night, it was true, but would undoubtedly be found by morning, when hopefully they would be far away. They spent an unprofitable hour arguing about Peterkin being left behind in Tanya’s place, but as he reasonably pointed out, there was no hope of Tanya being mistaken for Nicholas, and anyway, they would be more likely to act leniently with a child than a grown man. Privately Peterkin had no illusions as to his probable fate, although he showed a brave face to Nicholas. He felt a cold knot of fear curl in his stomach at the thought, but had it not been for Tanya, he knew he would have died in a far worse manner in that terrible convent, and in his simple way, he knew he could do no more than repay her in kind. As for Nicholas, he too had grave doubts as to Peterkin’s safety, but he knew the lad spoke the truth when he said there was no other way, and for him, any means must be used to save Tanya from her fate.
Having finally agreed on this point, they then decided they would follow their original plan through, for hopefully Tolov’s informant would let them through, and anyone encountered after would suppose them to have been questioned before having been allowed in. The rest would be in the lap of the gods, they must just hope the luck would hold.
They had no trouble the next day in finding out where Father Koriev lived, and there was only one route he could take to the Kremlin, as he lived quite near. They found a suitable place for the ambush, then spent the rest of the day going over and over the details of their plan.
The evening found them dressed in their respective disguises far too early, each chafing to get on with their night’s work. At last, it was time to leave, yet for a moment, they looked at one another uncertainly, hesitating, then Nicholas heaved a great sigh and threw back his shoulders.
‘Right,’ he cried. ‘At last, the waiting is over. We go into action, now I’ll take charge.’ The blood of his Viking ancestors was coursing through his veins, and he felt a fierce joy at the thought that at last the sitting around was over. Now he would come into his own! He was going into battle!