The Girl in the Tower (The Winternight Trilogy, #2)(42)
“Do not touch me,” Vasya snapped.
“I meant no harm, Vasilii Petrovich,” Kasyan said. Evening shadows blackened his fiery hair. “It is best not to antagonize princes. There are better means to get your way. In this case, though, he is right.”
“No, he isn’t,” she said. “A good lord cares for his people.”
The men were gathering up whatever would burn. The smell of wood-smoke began drifting out into the forest.
Kasyan snorted. His amused look made her feel, resentfully, like the country girl Vasilisa Petrovna, and not at all like Dmitrii’s young hero Vasilii. “But which people, that is the question, boy. I suppose your father was the lord of some country estate.”
She said nothing.
“Dmitrii Ivanovich is responsible for a thousand times as many souls,” Kasyan continued. “He must not waste his men’s strength on futility. Those girls are gone. Do not think of heroics tonight. You are dead on your feet; you look like a mad child’s ghost.” He glanced at Solovey: a looming presence at her shoulder. “Your horse is not in much better case.”
“I do well enough,” said Vasya coldly, drawing herself straight, though she could not keep from glancing worriedly at Solovey. “Better than those stolen children.”
Kasyan shrugged and glanced out into the darkness. “They might count life among slavers a mercy,” he said. “At least those girls are worth coin to a slaver, which is more than they are to their families. Do you think anyone wants a half-grown girl, another frail mouth to feed, in February? No. They lie atop the oven until they starve. Some might die going south to the slave-markets, but at least the slaver will give them the mercy-stroke when they can no longer walk. And the strong—the strong will live. If one is pretty or clever, she might be bought by a prince and live richly in some sun-drenched hall. Better than a dirt floor in Rus’, Vasilii Petrovich. We are not all born lords’ sons.”
The voice of the Grand Prince broke the silence that fell between them.
“Rest while you can,” Dmitrii told his men. “We will ride at moonrise.”
DMITRII’S PEOPLE FIRED THE BANDIT-CAMP and returned to the Lavra in the silvered dark. Despite the hour, many of the villagers gathered in the shadow of the monastery gate. They shouted savage approbation at the returning riders. “God bless you, Gosudar!” they cried. “Aleksandr Peresvet! Vasilii Petrovich!”
Vasya heard her name called with the others, even in her haze of exhaustion, and she found the strength to at least ride in straight-backed.
“Leave the horses,” said Rodion to them all. “They will be well looked after.” The young monk did not look at Vasya. “The bathhouse is hot,” he added, a little uneasily.
Dmitrii and Kasyan slid at once from their horses, jostling each other, victorious and carefree. Their men followed suit.
Vasya busied herself at once with Solovey, so no one would wonder why she didn’t go and bathe with the others.
Father Sergei was nowhere to be found. As Vasya curried her horse, she saw Sasha set off to find him.
THE LAVRA HAD TWO BATHHOUSES. They had heated one for the living. In the other, the Muscovite dead from that day’s battle were already washed and wrapped, by Sergei’s steady hand, and that was where Sasha found his hegumen.
“Father bless,” said Sasha, coming into the darkness of the bathhouse: that orderly world of water and warmth, where folk in Rus’ were born, and where they lay after dying.
“May the Lord bless you,” said Sergei, and then embraced him. For a moment, Sasha was a boy again, and he pressed his face against the frail strength of the old monk’s shoulder.
“We succeeded,” said Sasha, collecting himself. “By the grace of God.”
“You succeeded,” echoed Sergei, looking down at the dead men’s faces. He made a slow sign of the cross. “Thanks to this brother of yours.”
The rheumy old eyes met those of his disciple.
“Yes,” Sasha said, answering the silent question. “She is my sister, Vasilisa. But she bore herself bravely today.”
Sergei snorted. “Naturally. Only boys and fools think men are first in courage. We do not bear children. But this is a dangerous course you are taking, you and she both.”
“I cannot see a safer,” said Sasha. “Especially now that there will be no more fighting. There will be an appalling scandal if she is discovered, and some of Dmitrii’s men would happily force her, on some dark night, if they knew her secret.”
“Perhaps,” said Sergei heavily. “But Dmitrii has much faith in you; he will not take kindly to deception.”
Sasha was silent.
Sergei sighed. “Do what you must, I will pray for you.” The hegumen kissed Sasha on both cheeks. “Rodion knows, doesn’t he? I will speak to him. Now go. The living need you more than the dead. And they are harder to comfort.”
DARKNESS TURNED THE HOLY GROUNDS of the Lavra into a pagan place, full of shadow and strange voices. The bell tolled for povecheriye, and even the bell’s cry could not contain the dark and chaotic aftermath of battle, or Sasha’s own troubled thoughts.
Outside the bathhouse, people dotted the snow: villagers left destitute, hurled on the mercy of God. A woman near the bathhouse was weeping, mouth open. “I had only one,” she whispered. “Only one, my firstborn, my treasure. And you could not find her? No trace, Gospodin?”