Chapter 16
A rather worse jolt than usual awoke Tanya from an uneasy sleep, and she groaned, stretching her cramped limbs. Peterkin was fast asleep in the far corner, and she envied him.
The last two weeks had seemed more like two years to Tanya, chafing in the hot stuffy interior of the coach. Again and again, she cursed herself for not bringing a horse to ride – how she longed to be outside, galloping in the sunshine. She had even toyed with the idea of asking one of the guards to let her ride his horse, but the thought of the shock they would all feel held her back. Besides, she had no riding habit with her and could scarcely ride on a man’s saddle in a gown made more for the Court of Paris than for horseback. So she resigned herself to the boredom, contenting herself with occasional demands for the coachman to go faster.
The roads were dreadful, and quite often, the occupants of the coach felt as though every bone in their bodies was being broken, for the coach provided was not as well sprung as it might have been. Tanya wished now that they had decided to go by river as far as they could, but it was useless to repine, and the journey was two-thirds over after all. They had passed through Novgorod, the bustling, thriving town where people from all walks of life and many different nationalities traded their goods, and bought and sold. They stayed there overnight, then set out on the last stage of their journey, and now the scenery was wild and forbidding as they swept on towards St Petersburg where the Tsar had built a fortress on the banks of the Neva River, and it was here that he had gathered his army for his assault on Narva, four years after the defeat that still was like a thorn in his side.
Now that they were nearing their destination, Tanya began to feel almost sick with apprehension. She found herself wishing, against all inclination, that the journey could go on for ever. The interior of the coach against which she had been chafing suddenly became a haven that she was loath to leave for fear of what she would discover at the end of the interminable journey. But the miles were eaten up, and the days slipped inexorably by. The two occupants of the coach were mostly silent, each wrapped up in their own thoughts. It was the last night’s journey, and late tomorrow they would arrive at Petersburg. Tanya’s plan was to contact the Tsar as soon as possible and persuade him to let her go with him to Narva, then when the town had fallen, as everyone seemed convinced it would, she must try somehow to find out what had happened to Ivan. For the first time, she allowed herself to admit that the chances of ever being reunited with her husband were not good, and a deep depression swept over her. What would she do without him? She would be quite alone again, and the thought was crushing.
Then, with a lightening of spirit, she thought of Nicholas. She would always have a part of Ivan in their son, and she would give her life to him. He would have the best of everything she could give, and she would make him into a man Ivan would be proud to call his son.
So the coach bowled on through the fading light, nearing the strife-torn border between Russia and Sweden. But unknown to the travellers, it was heading towards disaster! The first the driver knew of impending danger was the sudden, vague outline of a large boulder in the centre of the road. Swearing under his breath, he did his best to stop the horses, pulling on the reins with all his strength, but their speed was too great, and the frightened animals swerved to avoid the obstacle, and the coach swung around. With a sickening crash, the side of the coach smashed into the rock.
Tanya heard the crash and the sound of splintering glass, then oblivion overcame her as she was flung across the coach, where her head caught on one of the food cupboard doors which had swung open. She was therefore spared the alarming sight of the large group of horsemen who galloped out from the cover of the thicket where they had been hiding, waiting for the coach their spies had already informed them was on the way. As this was the only road from Novgorod to Petersburg, it was used by the merchants who supplied the fortress with goods, plying their trade between the inland town and the coast, and the brigands who lived by preying on these hapless travellers had rich plunder. Whooping and yelling, they swarmed over the guards and the coach. Count Tolstoy’s men fought well but were soon overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers. The moon disappeared behind a cloud, and one of the men lit a torch, holding it high for his comrades to search the wrecked coach. They ignored the crumpled body of Peterkin lying huddled in the corner, but there was an outburst of cheering as the light from the torch picked out the pale, unconscious form of Tanya. She moaned slightly and moved her head, turning her face towards the light. The leader of the group, a tall, lean man with a scar disfiguring an otherwise not uncomely face gave a low whistle and dropped to his knees beside her, his eyes devouring the lovely face.
‘Well, lads, we seem to have struck lucky this time. What a prize!’
He looked over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing as he saw the naked lust standing out on the faces of his rough band of followers. He stood up, rocking gently on the balls of his feet, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
‘No one is going to argue that this one is mine, are they?’ he said softly through clenched teeth. No one answered, although there was a low muttering from a group of about four ruffians, and then their ringleader stepped forward. He was a huge man with black bushy hair and beard.
‘No one’s arguing, Christian, but we want our turn too,’ he grated, then shifted his eyes at the blaze of anger on his chief’s face. He towered over the younger man, yet seemed afraid to say more.
The leader stared at him a little longer, then he smiled.
‘And so you shall, Denka, so you shall – when I tire of her. When that will be, who can say? Do you understand me?’
Slowly the big man nodded his head, and the others followed suit.
The man called Christian’s smile widened, then he bent down and scooped Tanya up into his arms and jumped out through the broken door of the coach. He looked back over his shoulder and laughed. ‘By the martyrs, you should see your faces. Come, lads, as I’ve found myself such a treasure, you shall have the rest of the contents of the coach.’
Instant cheering broke out as the men began to fight amongst themselves over the contents of the various trunks. Tanya had brought some of her jewels with her in the vague hope of perhaps ransoming Ivan and had not bothered to hide them very carefully, as they had outriders. On their discovery, jubilation spread through the group, and the man named Denka carried them over to Christian.
‘Seems we’ve struck it more lucky than we figured,’ he gloated. ‘Did you mean what you said, Chief?’
Christian glanced at the glittering jewels, and his brows shot up.
‘You know I always mean what I say, Denka,’ he cried. ‘Just hand me that emerald necklace there, and the rest is yours, to divide fairly amongst the men.’
His second-in-command passed the necklace over with a sour look, then tied the box on to the back of his saddle. The pack horses were already loaded up with spoils, and the men were obviously anxious to be gone in case someone should arrive and catch them unawares. The carriage horses had been unharnessed and led away. Denka glanced towards the coach.
‘Shall we fire it, Chief?’ he asked hopefully, but Christian shook his head. ‘No, might attract too much attention,’ he said tersely. ‘There are too many of that devil’s soldiers around for my liking. Let’s get out of here, lads.’
He leapt up into the saddle and indicated Tanya. ‘Pass up the lady,’ he cried and settled her lolling body on the saddle in front of him.
‘The joke’s on you, Chief, if the wench dies,’ Denka said slyly.
Christian’s brows drew together.
‘Well, of course, if she dies, the other treasure is mine, instead,’ he said unpleasantly and dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. With a curse, the big man mounted his horse and followed, and soon the sound of the hooves had faded away, and all the moonlight picked out were the still bodies of the murdered men, sprawled on the ground like broken dolls.
Then from within the coach came a muffled groan and a dragging noise. Peterkin staggered out from the wreck, then bent over and was violently sick. Gasping, he straightened, and gingerly felt his head. His hand came away wet with blood, and he winced in pain. As his sight cleared, he saw the carnage all around him, then memory flooded back, and he turned quickly back to the coach, frantically pulling at the broken door. The moonlight showed quite clearly that the interior of the coach was empty. With dread in his heart, he stumbled round the bodies, relief flooding through him when he saw that Tanya was not among them. Then, with a sickening turn of his stomach, he realised that it probably would have been better if she had been! He had no doubt of the sordid fate that awaited her, and he ground his teeth in anguish, for he was quite helpless, stranded here in the middle of nowhere. He had no idea in what direction the brigands had gone and could not follow even if he had, for they had taken all the horses. Then, even as he stood, nausea flooding over him again, he heard the thud of hooves in the distance and stumbled over in the direction of the trees, to find cover. Within a matter of minutes, a group of horsemen came into view, and with a feeling of relief, Peterkin saw that they wore the red uniform of the Tsar’s own guard. They were already reining in their horses at the sight of the wrecked coach, and Peterkin forced his unwilling legs to carry him out into the moonlight. He waved his hands, shouting.
‘I am Count Dostoyevskiy’s man. I was escorting his wife to the Tsar when we were set upon and robbed. They have taken the Countess with them. For God’s sake help.’ Then under the startled gaze of the soldiers, he crumpled into a heap on the ground.
He recovered consciousness to find himself tied on behind one of the soldiers and groaned, dragging on the sleeve of his rescuer.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked hoarsely, trying to ignore the pain in his head.
‘To join the Tsar, of course,’ answered the man. ‘We have urgent dispatches for him. The others have ridden on ahead. When we reach Petersburg, we shall soon know if your story is true. We could find no papers in your coach. If not . . .’ he trailed off on a grim note. Peterkin tugged at his sleeve again.
‘But the Countess. I must find her. God knows what is happening to her now. Don’t you understand, I have to find her?’
The man shook his head unresponsively.
‘You’re not going anywhere in your condition,’ he said curtly. ‘The Tsar wouldn’t take very kindly to his personal guard gallivanting around the countryside on wild goose chases. He’s awaiting the dispatches, then we will either take back more messages to Moscow or join the fighting. Personally I’d like to see a bit of action. I mean to be there when Narva falls. What spoils there will be that day.’
He lapsed into silence, obviously brooding over such possibilities, and Peterkin, too tired and sick to answer, slipped slowly back into unconsciousness. The rest of the journey passed like a nightmare of pain and mental anguish, as in his lucid moments he could not help but picture Tanya’s fate; even as he was being carried towards safety, she was being carried off towards some unknown destination and a fate that Peterkin dared not dwell on.
He was barely conscious when they finally arrived at the farmhouse that Peter had made into his headquarters whilst staying near Petersburg and was vaguely aware of being laid gently on a bed and having his wounds bathed and bandaged. He must have slept for quite a while, for when he awoke again, he could hear loud voices coming from the other room. He groaned and, sitting up, swung his legs off the bed and staggered into the other room to see a huge table laid for dinner, and the Tsar seated at its head, singing lustily, and thumping with his tankard. From the uneasy looks of his companions, Peterkin guessed that trouble was brewing, and he was not mistaken.
It seemed that Alexis had once again disgraced his father by running away from the fight in full view of the Tsar’s army and officers. Peter was now making excuses for his son, at the same time working himself up into a terrible rage. The more he drank, the worse he became, and Peterkin stayed in the corner, instinctively knowing that this was not the moment to draw attention to himself. Prince Menshikov, one of the Tsar’s closest friends, was doing his best to distract him, but the sight of the twitching on the side of Peter’s face silenced him, and the onlookers knew that the Tsar was about to go into one of his fits.
Ever since he was a child, Peter had suffered from these fits. When he was ten years old, the Streltsy had revolted, urged on by his half-sister Sofia in her bid for the throne. Before his very eyes, his tutor and friend Artemon Matveyev had been brutally murdered, together with several members of the Maryshkin family. This experience had never been forgotten, and when Peter worked himself up into a rage, as he quite often did, he succumbed to such fits.
Before his horrified companions’ gaze, the Tsar crashed over and lay stiff, his eyes rolling, blood welling out from his mouth as he bit on his tongue. There was a dreadful silence, no one daring to move, when suddenly a small figure appeared and slipped over to the Tsar. It was a young golden-haired girl, barely more than a child, dressed in a very dirty shift, and little else. With a look of scorn at their frightened faces, she pushed them away and, taking a wooden spoon from the table, opened the Tsar’s mouth and jammed it between his teeth, thus stopping him from biting his tongue. One of the soldiers started forward, and another exclaimed in a shocked voice that it was forbidden to lay hands on the Tsar, but Prince Menshikov, who had been looking shrewdly at the girl, shook his head, and so she was allowed to bathe the Tsar’s face, cover him up warmly, and finally massage his forehead.
She looked up at the men now standing around a little foolishly and said quite calmly, ‘I have seen such fits before. I know just how to nurse him, you may safely leave him in my hands.’
Peterkin smiled inwardly at the thunderstruck expressions on their faces but realised he would not be able to speak to the Tsar that night, so reluctantly returned to his bed and drifted back into oblivion.
So it was that, when Peterkin awoke the next morning, it was to find the household in a turmoil. The soldiers were packing up, getting ready to march off to Narva, and Prince Menshikov (on the orders of Prince Romodanovsky, head of Russia’s secret police) had left orders for the little peasant girl to be the Tsar’s nurse, and to be obeyed in everything, so that the Tsar could soon be brought back to health.
Peterkin felt stronger than he had, and he made his way into the other room. Under the bemused eyes of some of the Tsar’s entourage, the strangely authoritative girl was issuing orders for Peter’s comfort, then she disappeared upstairs to where she had ordered him to be carried the night before.
Peterkin eyed an old woman who was bustling around clearing the table and cleared his throat loudly. She turned startled eyes towards him, then she shook her head in distress.
‘Why bless you, sir, if I hadn’t forgotten all about you, tucked away there in the corner,’ she cried in dismay, ‘you must forgive me, but such a to-do I never did see in all my life, that’s God’s own truth.’
She then launched into a long and detailed account of the previous night’s happenings, ending indignantly on the orders that had been left for the young girl to be obeyed in everything.
‘I think the little baggage is some sort of servant girl in Prince Menshikov’s household and is now trying to worm her way into the Tsar’s, not that she didn’t do a good job mind you, had everything under control in no time.’
As she paused for breath, Peterkin took the opportunity to speak.
‘I must see the Tsar,’ he cried urgently. ‘It is important.’
She gave him an impatient look.
‘Well, you may see him, but he won’t see you. Haven’t I just been telling you he is unconscious, no one is to touch him but this Marta?’ She gave a sniff of disapproval.
‘Well, who is in charge here then?’ cried Peterkin. ‘I must speak to someone, the lady I was escorting to the Tsar has been carried off by some band of cut-throats, I must find her, I must!’
The old woman shook her head.
‘You won’t be finding anyone just yet awhile,’ she replied. ‘I’ll get some water on the fire to boil, your wound needs dressing, and I’ll get you some food and ask the officer who’s in charge of the few soldiers left here to come in, more than that I cannot do.’
Muttering under her breath, she waddled out of the room, and Peterkin sat down at the table and put his head in his hands, fuming inwardly at his weakness and inability to do anything to help Tanya.
What the old woman had said proved to be true. The officer refused to have any part in a rescue attempt, saying it would be more than his life was worth to leave here now, with the Tsar lying sick, and it was many days before Peterkin managed to get his strength back. He was allowed to see the Tsar a couple of times, but each time, he was sleeping.
He looked curiously at the girl bending tenderly over the huge, still man. She was very young, her figure full, eyes dark and compassionate, her hair a golden blonde. Nevertheless, when she looked at him from her clear, calm eyes, he was reminded inexplicably of Tanya, and it wrung his heart.
He told her some of his story, and she was very sympathetic but could offer no suggestions, her whole mind was on restoring the Tsar to health.
After a week had passed, the Tsar regained full consciousness at last but was not well enough to see anyone, so in desperation, Peterkin borrowed a horse and, although still weak, managed to ride back to the wrecked coach in the hope of finding some clue as to Tanya’s whereabouts, but he had to admit it was quite hopeless.
Slowly, his heart heavy, he rode back towards Petersburg to await the time when the Tsar would see him, but he knew deep inside that there was nothing he could do now, it was too late anyway, and without money, with his master missing, probably dead, he was quite helpless.
As he had guessed, when the Tsar saw him, he expressed his regrets but would do nothing. He commanded Peterkin to stay with him until his armies were ready for the assault on Narva, as the young man was an able secretary and was soon put to good use as Peter’s strength returned.
So the weeks slipped by. Peterkin sent a message to Yvette, telling her the bad news and asking her to stay with the baby until he was able to find out what had happened to his mother and father, and he was able to join her again. At last, the message came from Menshikov that the armies were massing around Narva, for the Tsar had given strict orders that the assault on the town be held back until he was able to be there. So the Tsar, with his handful of royal guards, and Peterkin and Marta in tow set out on the journey to Narva, to wreak his revenge for the terrible defeat he had suffered there over three years before.
He had refused to leave the little peasant girl behind, and it was obvious from their demeanour that the two had become lovers. The great man could scarcely bear to let her out of his sight, and her face would soften whenever she looked at him.
Long before they reached the town, they could hear the siege guns booming, and the Tsar threw his head back in exultation.
‘Soon, soon I shall take this accursed city, then the Swedes will wish they had never been born.’ He looked over his shoulder at Peterkin and winked broadly. ‘And who knows, my friend? Perhaps we will find your master, Count Dostoyevskiy within those walls. Who knows, indeed?’
But as Peterkin strained his eyes towards the distant walls, he found it hard to believe that he would ever see either the Count or his wife again, and as he thought of those two, who meant so much to him, and the poor parentless child left behind in Russia, he felt a surge of hatred towards the times in which they lived, towards the cruelty and oppression that reigned throughout the world he knew, and wished with a strange feeling of longing that they had all been born in some future world where they could have lived out their lives in peace, where they could have all been together.
The siege guns boomed again, much louder now, and Peterkin shook off the feeling that had possessed him and shaded his eyes to take in the walls of Narva beginning to crumble slightly in places, and his pity went out to the inhabitants cowering behind those walls. Far better, perhaps, that if she were still alive, Tanya be where she was than behind those walls. There were many ways to die, but for the citizens of Narva, theirs, surely, would be one of the worst!