Sometimes Andrei would trot on ahead of them; or he might hang back and watch their two heads from behind, Maryushka’s held rather still, the steward’s bobbing forward constantly as though he were nodding off to sleep. But more often he would walk his horse beside them, glancing across from time to time at Maryushka, who would always be looking, dully, straight ahead. How pale she was.
Twice, however, when her husband had taken the horses down to one of the nearby streams to drink, she had moved swiftly over to Andrei and whispered: ‘Now, quickly. Take me now.’
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 place. Don’t leave me here.’
It was a litany he quickly came to dread.
And then, the second afternoon, just when he expected it to begin again, she turned to him with apparent calm and asked: ‘Have you any money, Cossack?’
‘A little. Why?’
She looked at him in a matter-of-fact way, then pursed her lips.
‘Because I think I’m going to have a baby.’
‘You’re pregnant?’
‘I’m not sure but… maybe. My time never came.’
‘And it’s mine?’
‘Of course.’
He looked at the floor.
‘I know you won’t take me away.’ Her voice was flat, monotonous and far sadder than he had heard it before. ‘A Cossack can do anything, but you don’t want me. Anyway, it was just a dream.’
He said nothing.
‘But if you have some money,’ she said, ‘you can give me that.’
‘Perhaps you’re not pregnant,’ he suggested hopefully.
‘Perhaps.’
Could it be a ploy? He did not think so.
‘But do you want to have it?’
‘Better yours than his.’
‘Won’t he know?’
She shrugged.
‘We’ll see,’ she replied.
He had a considerable amount of coins with him, some Polish, some Russian. He took out all the Russian and gave it to her.
‘Thank you.’ She paused. ‘You can still keep the money and take me with you,’ she said with a sad, wry smile.
‘No.’
Neither of them spoke for a little time, but he was aware of her long fingers opening and closing over the little leather pouch of coins, kneading them. He knew that she was silently crying now, but did not move to her side, fearing it would make her worse.
When she spoke again, through her tears, it was in a soft voice that was little more than a moan.
‘You don’t know, do you, Cossack? You don’t know what it is to be alone.’
‘I am often alone.’ He said it, he supposed, not to justify himself but to comfort her.
She shook her head.
‘You’re alone with hope. You may be killed, but you’re on an adventure. You’re free, Cossack – free as a bird over the steppe. But I’m alone with nothing – don’t you see? Just the sky; just the earth. There’s no way out. It’s so terrible, don’t you see, to know that. To know you’re alone, for ever…’
He thought of her mother, the village of Dirty Place, and of her child.
‘You’re not alone,’ he said.
She did not reply.
‘I’m going,’ she said finally. ‘When do you leave?’
‘At dawn.’
She nodded, then smiled weakly.
‘Remember me.’
She had a bright red scarf which she placed, in the manner of all Russian women, over her head before departing.
The sky was clear, a wonderful pale blue, as he rode southwards from the little town of Russka in the early morning.
Two miles below the town there was a huge meadow that had been made by the monastery a few decades before.
And it was as he skirted this that he saw her, standing on one side of it, wearing her red scarf. For a moment he thought of riding over to see her, but he decided not to. It was better that way.