Forever in Your Embrace

1

Russia, somewhere east of Moscow August 8, 620

The lowering sun shimmered through the dusty haze looming in languid stillness above the treetops, tinting the tiny grains of sand with vibrant shades of crimson until the very air seemed aflame.

An ominous portent, the reddish aura offered no promise of rain or respite for a parched and thirsty land.

Excessive heat and a lengthy drought had scorched the plains and barren steppes, wilting endless areas of grass down to densely matted roots.

But here in the mixed wooded region of Russia, bordered on the north and east by the Volga River and on the south by the Oka, the thick forests appeared relatively unscathed by the lack of rain.

Even so, amid the voluminous clouds of choking dust stirred aloft by the horses’ hooves, the occupants of the coach and its escort of soldiers still suffered the same as they traversed the vast wilderness.

In her full score years of life, the Countess Synnovea Zenkovna had seen a wide variety of faces her homeland could present.

They were as unique as the changing sea sons.

The long, brutal winters could be a test of endurance for even the most hearty.

In spring, the thawing ice and snow created deceptively treacherous bogs, which in times past had proven formidable enough to dissuade hordes of marauding Tatars and other invading armies.

Summer was a temperamental vixen.

Warm, lulling breezes and the gentle patter of rain could placate the soul, but when imbued with dry, scorching temperatures such as those that were presently hampering the land, the season served vengeance on anyone foolish enough to travel beneath its broiling sun, a fact which the Countess Synnovea had morosely considered prior to leaving her home.

The conditions were intolerable for a lengthy trek through Russia, especially one that had been embarked upon with equal amounts of urgency and reluctance.

If not for His Imperial Highness, Tsar Mikhail Romanov, requesting her presence in Moscow ere the week was out and a full dozen mounted guards sent under the direction of Captain Nikolai Nekrasov to serve as her escort, Synnovea would never have ventured upon such an arduoifs journey until the heat had adequately abated.

Given a choice, she would have remained in Nizhni Novgorod, where she’d have continued mourning the recent death of her father.

It was useless, of course, for a mere countess to belabor her lack of options when the Tsar of all the Russias had issued a command.

Immediate compliance was the only prudent choice for any loyal subject, but leaving her home had not been the worst of it.

His Majesty’s announcement that she would become the ward of his cousin upon her arrival in Moscow had dragged her grieving spirit into a darker gloom.

She was, after all, the only offspring of the late Count Aleksandr Zenkov, and now, much to her chagrin, the recipient of royal attention.

The tsar hadn’t elaborated on his purpose for assigning her a guardian.

Yet when one took into account her sire’s notable performance as an emissary and the many honors that had been heaped upon him, the favor she was presently receiving was understand able.

Still, Synnovea found it difficult to think of herself as a helpless waif in need of protection.

She had passed an age when most maidens marry, and now with her parents both dead, she had begun to assume the responsibilities of a mistress of vast holdings.

Why in heaven’s name did she need a guardian?

Neither a youngling nor a pauper, yet treated like one , Synnovea mused morosely.

Against her will, a more viable reason for Tsar Mikhail’s dictate came to mind, causing her to cringe inwardly.

Her elongated spinsterhood had in all probability influenced his decision, especially if he had become convinced that her father had failed to address that issue satisfactorily before his death.

Despite the demands of protocol, Aleksandr Zenkov had refrained from forcing his daughter into marriage, having nurtured a hope that she would someday discover a love the likes of which he had shared with her mother, Eleanora.

Though others might have been convinced that he had dragged his heels in procuring a spouse for Synnovea, Aleksandr had nevertheless made provisions for her far beyond the standard for female descendants, securing lands and wealth in her name while gaining guarantees from the tsar that, upon the demise of her sire, none of these assets would be stripped from her.

Much earlier, Aleksandr had confounded tradition by arranging for Synnovea to be tutored by some of the most respected mentors in Russia as well as abroad.

Those who had once wagged their heads while lamenting the count’s lack of a male heir had been taken aback by his zeal to elevate his daughter to a status equal to any son.

Then, after the death of her mother some five years ago, Aleksandr had enlisted Synnovea’s assistance in the realm of diplomatic affairs and foreign dignitaries, entrusting her with significant responsibility in those areas, which had ultimately involved her in his extensive travels abroad.

Having had an English mother, Synnovea could speak that language as fluently as she could her native Russian, and with a good grasp of French as well, she had been able to pen letters to officials in all three.

No son could have done any better.

Yet here she was, being whisked to Moscow like so much chattel belonging to the tsar.

And she was loathing every moment of it.

Wearily Synnovea braced an elbow upon the corner armrest and, with a trembling hand, clasped a dampened handkerchief to her brow as she sought to quell another attack of nausea, elicited no doubt by the writhing instrument of torture in which she rode.

The wild gyrations of the coach remained unyielding as it swept around curves and jounced over deeply rutted roads.

To some degree, the tinkling of harness bells and the jangling of horses’ necklets mellowed the din of drumming hooves and a rumbling conveyance, yet Synnovea was convinced that nothing short of the end of the journey would ease the pain throbbing in her temples.

Even the late-afternoon sun seemed puckishly bent on punishing her as it cast its blinding rays into the windows, forcing her to squeeze her eyes tightly shut until the coach passed into the cooler, mottled shade of the lofty trees that flanked the road.

When she finally dared open them again, a spotted red haze obscured the interior and the other two occupants of the coach.

“Can it be that you’re distressed, Countess?”

Ivan Voronsky inquired with a sardonic smile.

Synnovea blinked several times in an attempt to focus her gaze upon the man who, through no design of her own, had become her traveling companion and temporary protector of sorts.

For all of her schooling and travels, it seemed unthinkable that she was destined to be placed under the tutelage of strangers and, toward that end, was being escorted by an individual who she strongly suspected was a Polish sympathizer and a leftover fanatic of Sigismund’s Jesuits.

Comments that the self-proclaimed cleric and scholar had made during their enforced proximity had progressively abetted such notions, and although his leanings were nothing that she could positively affirm, Synnovea was nevertheless leery.

“I’m hot, and I’m dirty,”

she complained with an exasperated sigh.

“This unrelenting pace has left me weary beyond belief.

At every station along the way we’ve had to exchange horses because of their exhaustion.

When we haven’t been allowed a comparable time to rest throughout the whole of these three days, have I not cause to be distressed?”

On the seat beside her, Ali McCabe shifted restlessly, offering mute testimony to her own fatigue.

At the moment, the aging maidservant seemed far more fragile than her threescore two years might normally have indicated, but then, Synnovea was sure her own face evidenced a similar tension.

“Princess Anna urged me to hasten back lest her plans be set awry,”

their dour-faced chaperon haughtily informed Synnovea.

“Out of respect for her bidding and the behest of His Imperial Highness, we’ve no choice but to obey.”

Annoyed by the man’s Spartan logic, Synnovea whisked slender fingers over a puffed sleeve and promptly wrinkled her fine, straight nose as dust billowed up from the fabric.

She had acquired the dark green and black-striped traveling gown in France at the cost of no small sum, and even if she were to find Anna Taraslovna more tolerant of her foreign fashions than Ivan Voronsky had thus far proven himself to be, Synnovea could only conclude that after such a grueling jaunt, the garment’s continued usefulness had been seriously hindered.

Lifting her gaze, Synnovea found herself the recipient of another derisive smirk.

She could hardly mistake its import, but then, the man’s contempt was hardly surprising.

Soon after establishing his darkly austere presence in the opposite seat, Ivan Voronsky had relentlessly subjected her and her aging Irish maid to rudely critical inspections.

Even now, he seemed to wear piety like some accolade of well-deserved honor, and when he looked down his long, thin nose at them, Synnovea had the distinct impres sion that he had judged them and found them seriously wanting.

“Perhaps you might enlighten us as to your reasons for insisting upon our manner of travel, sir,”

she prodded.

“Had we journeyed by night as Captain Nekrasov suggested, we might have been able to escape the worst of this heat and perhaps even some of the grime.”

Ivan’s dark eyes chilled significantly.

“The night belongs to the devil, Countess, and the tender soul should be wary of treading where demons are wont to wander.”

Synnovea rolled her gaze upward, pleading for heavenly support to enable her to extend some kindly forbearance toward the highly opinionated individual.

The fact that they had already suffered through many hellish torments apparently hadn’t even entered into the man’s consideration.

“Since you were the one who insisted upon this pattern of flight, sir, I’m sure you understand the benefits far better than we’ve been able to.”

Her thinly veiled barb evoked a slightly more caustic tone as the cleric offered a more reasonable excuse than he had hitherto been inclined to do.

“Before I left Moscow, I heard rumors of a band of renegades roaming this territory.

Since it’s usually the practice of murderers and thieves to pounce upon their victims in the stealth of darkness, it seemed prudent for us to travel during the daylight hours to escape the possibility of being waylaid.”

“A wise decision indeed, if we manage to endure this sweltering heat,”

Synnovea rejoined dryly.

Ivan lifted his chin in pompous arrogance and considered her with frosty aloofness.

“If you’re uncomfortable, Countess, may I suggest that your extravagant attire is fully at fault.

A simple sarafan would’ve better served your needs while modestly adhering to the customs of a Russian maid.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

Synnovea sighed, bridling the urge to argue.

The conventional sarafan , with its loose lines flaring slightly from shoulder to floor, would have definitely disguised her form better, but the traditional lay ers worn beneath and over the sometimes costly, heavily ornamented gowns would have literally stifled her.

“After sailing abroad so many times, I’ve become accustomed to the styles of the French and English courts and have ceased to consider that anyone would find them offensive.”

“Then you do indeed err, Countess,”

Ivan Voronsky asserted with vigor.

“Indeed, had I not the discipline of a saint, I would have detached myself posthaste from the duties to which the Princess Anna has assigned me and sought other means of travel.

Truly, I’ve never seen a Russian-born maid so partial to wearing such lewd foreign trappings.”

The man’s unbridled faultfinding chafed Synnovea’s patience no less now than when he had first voiced his aversion to her garments shortly after his arrival at her stoop.

No doubt, had she matched his own stoic black garb, she’d have fallen into better favor with the man.

“Oh, sirrr…”

Ali McCabe’s voice trembled with barely suppressed ire as she dared to enter the conversation.

“I can understand that ye’ve no ken o’ what’s acceptable ’cross the seas, seein’ as how ye’ve ne’er ventured beyond these climes.

Ta be sure, sir, there’s a whole different world o’er there.

Why, ye’d be appalled at the license some highborn ladies take ta walk an’ talk right out in the open wit’ men what be neither monk nor close kin.

Take, for instance, Queen Elizabeth, God rest her soul.

Nary a soul e’er entertained thoughts o’ her bein’ locked away in a terem or secluded in a castle wit’ only women an’ a few holy men in attendance. Can ye imagine all o’ them fine, high-ranking lords flockin’ ’round the late queen, an’ nary a Brit thinkin’ her depraved?”

“Disgusting behavior!”

Ivan rose to the bait with eager outrage.

“Indeed, I have to wonder why I’m even here after the many visits your mistress made to that realm.

I fear my protection has come too late to be of benefit.”

Whatever humor Synnovea had felt over Ali’s bantering discourse vanished abruptly at the man’s slur.

Bristling with indignation, she was considering how best to air her objection when Ali McCabe drew herself up sharply in a highly offended snit.

“As if me own sweet lamb is anythin’ less than the innocent she’s always been!”

The old woman twitched on the seat, growing more irate with each passing moment.

Having closely attended her charge from infancy, the maid was greatly incensed by the cleric’s insinuations.

“Whether it be here or there, sir, I can assure ye that no man has e’er laid a wayward hand ta me mistress.”

“That remains to be seen, does it not?”

Ivan challenged, a thin eyebrow elevated loftily.

“When your mistress wears such close-fitting attire, I can only think that her main purpose is to attract male attention.”

“How dare you suggest such a thing, sir!”

Synnovea gasped, taking umbrage at his slander.

Ali’s rancor deepened.

“Seein’ as how ye’re ridin’ in me mistress’s coach an’ eatin’ meals an’ stayin’ in rooms what she’s been payin’ for, sir, ye might consider showin’ her the proper respect due a lady just ta show how grateful ye ought ta be.”

Ivan fixed the tenacious little maid with a disdaining sneer.

“You’ve been ill-tutored in the treatment of saints, old woman, else you’d know that charity is expected, especially from those who can afford it.

Apparently you haven’t been in this country long enough to understand our customs.”

The old woman cocked her head at a curious angle.

It was fresh in her mind that Ivan Voronsky had claimed poverty soon after presenting himself to the countess, declaring himself without wealth or possession beyond the clothes on his back and those few he carried within his black valise.

Thereafter he had left the full burden of his subsistence upon her mistress, as if he had every right to expect her benevolence.

Only the day before, he had voiced the belief that few were worthy of such charity, which had obviously been his way of trying to dissuade the countess from giving a generous purse to a young mother who had been left stranded with an infant at a coach station after the sudden death of her husband.

Ivan’s efforts to halt her mistress’s largesse had seemed onerous enough, but when he had suggested the contribution be given to him instead so he could carry the gift to the mother church, Ali had felt rankling spurs dig deeply into the flanks of her Irish temper.

His solicitations had solidified her belief that he was far less concerned with the needs of the poor and the destitute than with his own wealth and circumstance.

“Yer pardon, Yer Eminence.”

The address was greatly exaggerated as Ali yielded to her unmeasured distrust of the man.

“’Tis a simple fact that I’ve not laid me poor eyes on a real saint in some years now, though there be some what seek ta convince folks o’ their piety.

Wolves in sheep’s clothin’, I’ll warrant, but that’s neither here nor there, seein’ as how ye’re so fine and saintly yerself.”

The veins in Ivan’s temples became darkly distended as his beady eyes pierced the servant.

His stare was so menacing that he seemed on the verge of concocting some strange incantation to make the maidservant vanish into thin air.

If he meant to frighten Ali, then in that quest he failed miserably.

The fact that Ali had come to Russia with Count Zenkov’s bride some twenty-odd years ago and, since that time, had been treated with kindly deference, which a lord might bestow upon a favored servant, had instilled within the old woman an unshakable confidence in herself and in those whom she loyally served.

“You dare question my authority?”

Ivan demanded sharply.

“I am of the church!”

“O’ the church?”

Ali repeated in an inquisitive tone.

“There be churches far an’ wide, sir.

Which be the one what sanctioned ye?”

His thin lips twisted in a repugnant sneer.

“You wouldn’t know the order, old woman.

It was founded a great distance from here.”

It wasn’t the first time that Ivan Voronsky had skirted around his affiliations and ordination, but his evasive an swers only heightened Ali’s curiosity.

“An’ the direction, sir? Which way would it be? Up or down?”

For a moment Ivan seemed ready to explode.

“Were I to hold out some hope that you’d have knowledge of the province from whence I came, old woman, I might deem an answer worthy of being uttered, but I see no reason to discuss such matters with an old dullard of a servant.”

Ali squawked and flapped her thin arms in high-flying indignation as she twitched on the seat.

Indeed, she seemed ready to catapult herself with claws bared upon the man.

Synnovea laid a lightly restraining hand upon her servant’s arm to forestall such a possibility.

Nevertheless, the two combatants glared at each other as if tempted to duel to the death, leaving her bereft of any hope that a truce could be established between them.

On the outside chance that their ire could be diminished by some slight degree, Synnovea turned a plaintive appeal to the pinch-faced man.

“When our tempers have been sorely tested by the horrible conditions that we’ve had to endure these past days, ’tis understandable that we are wont to quarrel among ourselves, but I plead with you both to desist of this bickering.

’Twill only extend the ordeal.”

Had Ivan been of a gentler, more kindly or manly bent, he might have given pause to Synnovea’s plea, for her softly cajoling expression was most engaging.

He may have admired the translucent radiance of the large, thickly fringed eyes that slanted slightly upward beneath delicately winged brows.

Those mesmerizing orbs were a curious blend of shades: variegated shards of jade flaring outward from pupils and darkening to a warm, clear brown.

As a man, he might also have appreciated the fair skin presently glowing with a moist, reddish sheen or even savored her delicate features.

Most assuredly, had he been cast from the same mold as others of his gender, he might have been held much in awe by her stunning beauty, but Ivan Voronsky was not like most men.

He was more of a mind to think that feminine pulchritude was a finely devised tool of a darker realm, primarily invented for the purpose of diverting extraordinary men like himself from a path toward exalted greatness.

“You err if you think your benefactress won’t hear of this, Countess.

You’ve allowed your maid to insult me, and I shall be most specific in telling Princess Anna of your toleration for your hireling’s impertinence.”

Synnovea made her own conjectures as to Ivan’s origins as his hissing whisper filled the confines of the coach.

“Tell her what you will, sir,”

she invited stiltedly, refusing to be intimidated.

“And should I be of such a mind, I might also caution His Majesty about those who yet hold out some hope of a Polish pretender or another false Dmitri gracing the throne.

I’m sure such a hero as the Patriarch Filaret Nikitich would find your sympathies misplaced, considering his recent release from a Polish prison.”

Ivan’s small, dark eyes shot sparks as he recognized the havoc she could create in his life.

“Misplaced sympathies? Why, Countess, I’ve never heard of anything so absurd.

However did you manage to concoct such a ludicrous notion?”

“Was I mistaken?”

Surprised by her own trembling disquiet, Synnovea struggled to convey an aplomb that was, at best, strained.

“Forgive me, sir, but with all of your chatter about the possibility of a direct descendant of the late Tsar Ivan Vasilievich being alive, I couldn’t help but recall two previous occasions when the Poles tried to place a man upon the throne by claiming he was the late Tsar Ivan’s own son come back to life.

How many times must a false Dmitri be revived to vie for the tsardom when everyone knows his father killed him in a fit of temper?”

Ivan detested being challenged by a woman, particularly one who had acquired just enough knowledge of history and the events of the world to be dangerous.

It was even more galling to be forced to assuage her suspicions.

“You do me a grave disservice, Countess.

What I spoke of was no more than speculations derived from reports that I had heard some months ago.

Believe me, my lady, I hold Tsar Mikhail in the highest esteem.

Why, I wouldn’t be here if the Princess Anna didn’t trust me implicitly.”

He managed a stiff smile for Synnovea’s benefit.

“Despite your doubts, Countess, I hope to prove myself a worthy escort, certainly one of higher merit than His Majesty’s guards.

They are, after all, no more than common men incapable of entertaining any aspirations beyond their own selfish desires.”

“And what of you, sir?”

Synnovea inquired with a touch of skepticism.

In her mind the cleric fell far short of the gentlemanly standards to which the officer who led the entourage adhered.

Throughout his career, Captain Nekrasov had been praised for his unswerving valor and gallant manners.

Tsar Mikhail couldn’t have sent a more dedicated soldier to serve as her protector.

“Have you truly vaulted well beyond that moat which poses a hindrance to mortal man and founded your feet upon the lofty elements of sainthood? Forgive me, sir, but I remember as a child being cautioned by a kindly priest not to think of myself as some magisterial gift to mankind, but, with humbleness of mind, to consider my frail form to be temporal and with a fervent zeal to look toward a higher source for the wisdom and perfection which I am obviously lacking.”

“What have we here? A learned scholar?”

Ivan chortled, failing badly in his attempt at humor.

If anything, his tone communicated an underlying hint of malice.

He was a man who had set himself to the task of influencing the misguided and had little patience with anyone who overlooked his potential or questioned his importance or ideas.

“Imagine such wisdom ascribed to so fair a maid.

What is to become of those ancient scribes who, for their enlightenment, have cleaved to the weighty tomes of bygone eras?”

Synnovea sensed the man was chiding her for voicing a logic he considered worthless.

Apparently he had his own schemes for the universe, and far be it that any should try to dissuade him from his purpose.

Yet she was not above trying.

“When a person has a fault deeply rooted within his reasoning, if he continues to nurture that defect, though he may study the works of a thousand philosophers, he shall remain no wiser than before.”

Ivan’s thin lips twitched with growing irritation as he accepted her reasoning as a personal affront to himself.

“And, of course, you know such a man.”

Synnovea stiltedly directed her gaze out of the window, knowing full well what he thought.

Considering the cleric’s irascibility, it seemed advisable for her to retreat into silence and endure his company without further comment on any subject.

She only wasted her breath trying to reason with the man.

The four-in-hand swept past a thick stand of lofty firs edging the road and, in its wake, left widely spreading boughs swaying vigorously.

The sweating, foam-flecked steeds strained to pull the weighty coach up yet another incline, and though the animals were nearly spent from the harsh extremes and the unrelenting pace, the driver’s whip gave them no reprieve.

It continued to flick out with fiery urgency, forcing them to expend whatever strength they still possessed in a quest to reach the next station before nightfall.

The soldiers valiantly kept pace, yet even those well-seasoned stalwarts, with their faces and tunics darkened by the grime of the road, were beginning to show signs of deep fatigue.

No doubt each of them anticipated a respite offered by a night’s lodging in the village up ahead.

The seemingly endless trek, the miserable conditions, the countless hours spent in the saddle or enduring the spine-jarring jolts of the carriage, had all coalesced into a diabolical torment, one which seemed particularly bent on sapping the last shred of spirit and vitality from each of them.

It was disheartening to think that there was still another grueling day of travel left before they would come in sight of Moscow.

The coach lurched heavily as the team raced around another sharp bend, and once again Synnovea braced back into the plush cushions to keep from being launched into the lap of her maid.

Heavy fir branches snapped back suddenly against the conveyance, momentarily startling the passengers, but in the very next instant a more terrifying sound intruded.

The exploding bark of gunfire muffled the din of loudly crashing branches and thundering hooves, wrenching frightened gasps from the three and bringing them upright in their seats.

“We’re being attacked!”

Ivan exclaimed in high-pitched panic.

Synnovea went cold with dread as another deafening volley reverberated in diminishing waves through the forest.

The barrage ebbed to a more tolerable level.

Then a shot cracked from the rear of the coach and was promptly answered by a more distant report that ended abruptly in the footman’s shriek of pain.

As his scream faded, the driver sawed on the reins, bringing the steeds to a jolting halt.

A heartbeat later, the door was snatched open and the occupants found themselves gaping at the unwavering bore of a huge flintlock pistol.

“ Out! ”

The rumbling command wrenched surprised starts from the three as a giant of a man leaned inward, enhancing the threat of his massive weapon.

His slanted gray eyes flicked from one to the other until they came to rest upon Synnovea.

Half masked by a long, drooping mustache, the brigand’s mouth slowly twisted into a leer.

“Eh, now, what a pretty pigeon we caught for ourselves.”

Synnovea could imagine what the presence of this miscreant meant and she was absolutely terrified.

It was difficult to determine the origin of the brigand, for his countenance was as fierce as any she had ever seen.

His head was bald except for a long thatch of tan hair tied with a thin leather cord near the scalp and left to hang free over one ear.

His faded, sky-blue military coat might have once graced a Polish officer of wide girth, but it now hung open to accommodate the broad chest of its present owner.

Perhaps for the same purpose, the sleeves had been stripped away, leaving the bulging arms bare.

A dingy yellow sash encircled the brigand’s thick waist, securing a pair of boldly striped, wide-legged pantaloons, the bottoms of which had been stuffed into the slouched tops of a pair of boots frivolously adorned with silver buckles.

Synnovea lifted her chin in an attempt to subdue its trembling and, with more spirit than she had deemed herself capable of, inquired sharply, “What’s the meaning of this outrage? What do you want from us?”