Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [230]
And in the damp chill of the forest, for a few minutes, they had continued their urgent, surreptitious lovemaking before resuming their places, apparently distant from each other.
When they reached Russka, Andrei was to stay at Nikita’s house near the church while the steward returned to Dirty Place. As they approached the town Maryushka remarked to her husband: ‘I don’t want to wait on that damned Cossack.’
‘You’ll do as you’re told,’ he answered gruffly. ‘The master said I was to look after him so that’s that. He’ll be gone in two days,’ he added, by way of encouragement.
And she had sullenly obeyed.
The two days in Russka had been even more memorable than the journey.
Firstly, there had been the village of Dirty Place, where the steward had obligingly taken him.
It was a small village, no different from any number of damp little hamlets he had seen on the way. Were there still relations of his there? No one seemed to know anything about his grandfather, who had fled eighty years before, until one old woman was able to tell him that, yes, she had heard that one young man had disappeared into the wild field a few years before she was born. The grandson of that family lived at one end of the hamlet. And so it was that Andrei found himself confronted with a sturdy, pleasant-faced fellow with a thick shock of wavy black hair. He and four children lived in one of the stout huts. They welcomed Andrei when they heard his story, looked with admiration at his fine clothes, and through this sturdy peasant he learned that he was, in some way or other, distantly related to many of the village folk including even Maryushka’s mother.
‘And you are free – you have your own farm? You are not a serf?’ his cousin asked in wonder.
It almost hurt Andrei to admit it and to see the look of friendly envy on the man’s face.
He enjoyed his visit to the monastery rather more. The monks and the artisans of Russka still made icons, but in recent generations they had made no attempt to produce their own style, preferring to copy the work of others.
‘Here,’ one of the monks said proudly, as he showed Andrei a beautiful miniature icon, done in bright colours and lavishly decorated with gold, ‘is a Mother-of-God in the style of the Stroganov masters. And here,’ he showed his guest a large, imposing icon of Christ, the Ruler of the World, ‘is a fine one in the present Moscow manner. This is for one of the Tsar’s own churches.’
He thanked the monks for their kindness and gave a suitable donation before he left.
The last forty-eight hours had been difficult. There was the danger of discovery, for a start.
Not that he was afraid for himself. He was a Cossack after all. But there was a wildness, a desperation in Maryushka that made him afraid, more than ever, that she might do something foolish that could harm her.
She was cunning though. She complained grumpily to the neighbours and townspeople at having to clean and cook for the Cossack. She would be seen going irritably about her work while he was out, and she even made it appear that she left the house as much as possible when he was there.
Yet on both days she had slipped quietly into his bed in the early morning, and had already managed, on four other occasions, to make brief but passionate love to him when they could not be seen.
Several times, though, she had come close to him and whispered: ‘Take me away with you. Take me to the Ukraine.’
It was impossible.
‘You’ve a husband,’ he reminded her.
‘I hate him.’
‘And I’m going on campaign.’
Did she love him or was he a means of escape? He did not know. He did not really care either. For the fact was, even if running off with Maryushka were possible, he did not want her.
Yet she did not give up. She would ask, wait a few hours, then gently ask again.
‘Take me away, my Cossack. Take me with you. You needn’t keep me. I’ll go away and not trouble you. Just take me away from this