The Kadin - Bertrice Small [17]
Katya smiled wryly as she watched her sister eat the soft white rolls. My wedding gown was wool, and hers is silk. But silk becomes Marya, with her fair, creamy skin, her silvery-blond hair, and her turquoise eyes. A smack from her mother brought Katya back to the present
“Get the water heating over the fire for Marya’s bath, daydreamer. Tanya, take your sister’s dishes and wash them”
The morning flew by, and the noon hour approached. The entire village was decked in festive finery for the wedding of its headman’s daughter. Tables had been set up in a field by the church for the feasting. Suddenly a boy posted at the edge of the village cried out “They come!”
Marya flew to the window and peeped out. A tall youth on a white pony led the procession. He laughed merrily, his dark eyes sparkling as the children who scampered by his side shouted, The bridegroom comes! Make way!”
Marya felt her mother’s arm about her shoulders. That is your husband, daughter.”
“He is so handsome,” she whispered.
“Pah,” snapped Sonya. “His looks are a bonus and would mean nothing if he were not a good man, which he is. Do you think that papa and I would give you to just any man?”
The people of both villages murmured appreciatively as Marya Rostov was led past them to the church by her parents. Her gold-embroidered white silk skirt and blouse lay over several petticoats of sheer white wool, two of which were ruffled in silk. A wreath of yellow and white flowers crowned her head.
“What a little beauty!” exclaimed Pyotr Tumano? to his father. “When you would not let me see her, I had visions of a goat-faced horror. If she is as sweet as she looks, I will be a happy man.”
Then you will be happy,” replied his father. “If I had let you see her before today, she would be no virgin. This marriage is to settle a feud, not to start another.”
The couple met at the altar, and Father Georgi Rostov, Marya’s uncle, joined them in wedlock. Shyly Marya looked up at her new husband, who, perceiving her genuine innocence, kissed her tenderly and said, “How do you do, Madam Tumanova. I do believe I love you.”
Blushing, but with her eyes twinkling, she returned, “And I also, husband.”
Nikolai Rostov had spared no expense for his daughter’s wedding feast Whole goats and lambs turned slowly over the fires on their spits. The wine flowed endlessly. The tables were piled high with fruits, breads, and cakes. By late afternoon almost everyone was pleasantly drunk, and the bride and groom became the targets of broader and broader jests. So it was with befuddled amazement that the revelers turned at the cry of “Fire!” The village was ablaze, and Marya watched in horror as the Tartar raiders, white teeth gleaming in their yellow faces, swept down on the celebration.
It was a slaughter. Neither the Rostovs nor the Tumanovs had come armed to the wedding. There were screams and shouts. People began running. Marya grabbed her two younger brothers, Boris and Ivan, and her little sister Tanya.
“Quick, hide in the woods!”
Twelve-year-old Boris struggled in her grasp. “I want to fight them!”
Marya slapped him hard. “Father, Paul, and Gregor are dead,” she hissed at him. “You are now head of the family. Take Ivan and Tanya to safety! In God’s name, Boris, run!”
He hesitated a moment, then, taking his brother and sister by the hand, sped toward the trees. In less than a minute—though it seemed an eternity—the children disappeared into the forest A terrifying scream rent the air near her, and Marya turned to see Katya writhing in a blodied patch of grass miscarrying her baby while the three men who had just raped her stood nearby,