The Girl in the Tower (Winternight Trilogy #2)(52)
The steward took them past a low, neat stable that breathed out sweet animal-smells and gusts of warm air. Behind it lay an empty stallion-paddock with a high fence. It held a little, square shelter, meant to keep off the snow, and also a horse-trough.
Solovey halted just outside the paddock and eyed the arrangement with distaste.
“You needn’t stay here,” Vasya murmured to him again, “if you do not wish to.”
Come often, the horse said only. And let us not stay here long.
“We won’t,” Vasya said. “Of course we won’t.”
They wouldn’t, either. She meant to see the world. But Vasya did not want to be anywhere else just then, not for gold or jewels. Moscow lay at her feet, all its wonders ready for her eyes. And her sister was near.
A groom had come up behind them, and at the steward’s impatient gesture, he let down the bars of the paddock-fence. Solovey deigned to be led inside. Vasya undid the stallion’s girth and slung the saddlebags over her own shoulder.
“I will carry them myself,” she said to the steward. On the road, her saddlebags were life itself, and she found now that she could not relinquish them to a stranger in this beautiful, frightening city.
A little mournfully, Solovey said, Be careful, Vasya.
Vasya stroked the horse’s neck. “Don’t jump out,” she whispered.
I won’t, said the horse. A pause. If they bring me oats.
She turned to say as much to the steward. “I’ll come back to see you,” she said to Solovey. “Soon.”
He blew his warm breath into her face.
Then they left the paddock, Vasya trotting in her brother’s wake. She looked back once, before the curve of the stable quite obscured her view. The horse watched her go, stark against the white snow. All wrong, that Solovey would stand there behind a fence, like an ordinary horse…
Then he disappeared, behind the curve of a wooden wall. Vasya shook away her misgivings and followed her brother.
15.
Liar
Olga had heard Dmitrii’s cavalcade return. She could hardly help hearing it; the bells rang until her floor shook, and in the wake of the pealing came the cries of “Dmitrii Ivanovich! Aleksandr Peresvet!”
A tight, reluctant ache once again eased about Olga’s heart when she heard her brother’s name. But of her relief she gave no sign. Her pride wouldn’t allow it, and there was no time. Maslenitsa was upon them now, and preparations for the festival took all her attention.
Maslenitsa was the three-day sun-feast, one of the oldest holidays in Muscovy. Older by far than the bells and crosses that marked its passing, though it had been given the trappings of religion to mask its pagan soul. This—the last day before the festival began—was the last day they could eat meat until Easter. Vladimir, Olga’s husband, was still in Serpukhov, but Olga had arranged a feast for his household—wild boar and stewed rabbit and cock-pheasants, and fish.
For a few more days, the people could still eat butter and lard and cheese and other rich things, and so in the kitchen they were making butter-cakes by the score, by the hundred, cakes enough for days of gluttony.
Women filled Olga’s workroom, talking and eating. They had all come with their veils and their over-robes to do their mending in the pleasant crowd of warm bodies and chatter. The excitement in the streets seemed to have risen and invaded the very air of the sedate tower.
Marya sprang about, shouting. Busy or no, Olga still worried about her daughter. Since the night of the ghost-story, Marya had often woken her nurse with screaming.
Olga paused in her hurrying to sit a moment beside the oven, exchange pleasantries with her neighbors, call Marya and look her over. On the other side of the stove, Darinka simply would not stop talking. Olga wished her head ached less.
“I went to Father Konstantin for confession,” Darinka was saying loudly. Her voice made a shrill counterpoint to the murmur of the crowded room. “Before he went into seclusion in the monastery. Father Konstantin—the fair-haired priest. Because he seemed such a holy man. And indeed he instructed me in righteousness. He told me all about witches.”
No one looked up. The women’s sewing had a new urgency. In the mad revel of festival-week, Moscow would glitter like a bride, and the women must all go to church—not once, but many times—bundled magnificently, and be seen to peer out from around their veils. Besides, this was not the first time Darinka had regaled them with tales of this holy man.
Marya, who had heard Darinka’s tale before and was weary of her mother’s fussing, pulled herself loose and scampered out.
“He said they walk among us, these witches born,” Darinka continued, not much troubled by her lack of audience. “You never know who they are until it is too late. He said they curse good Christian men—curse them—so that they see things that are not there, or hear strange voices—the voices of demons—”
Olga had heard rumors of this priest’s hatred for witches. They made her uneasy. He alone knew that Vasya…
Enough, Olga told herself. Vasya is dead, and Father Konstantin has gone to the monastery; let it pass. But Olga was glad of the tumult of festival-week, which would turn the women’s attention away from the ravings of a handsome priest.
Varvara slipped into the workroom, with Marya returned, panting, at her heels. Before the slave could speak, the girl burst out, “Uncle Sasha is here! Brother Aleksandr,” she corrected, seeing her mother frown. Then she added, irrepressibly, “He has a boy with him. They both want to see you.”