omake #6

 

Omake #6 because you asked for it...

 

Jurko had a small side trip he wanted to take whilst his people were engaged in translation work, and he asked for volunteers to make him an entourage.

“What are you up to, Ataman?” asked Simeon.

“Putting a little hell into the lives of Gosia Griszczukowa’s son and daughter-in-law, and if I recall correctly, her married daughter who looked down on me and whacked the dirty little ragamuffin thief when her mother wasn’t looking, and married up to a landowner one step above szlachciura and would have nothing more to do with the family. They live in a little village north east of Kijow, and I want to turn up there with a few wings as well as very smart looking Cossacks, all zing, boom, tantarara, you know the drill, and then floor Timosz and sneer at his wife and at Nadochka.”

Every hussar and Cossack stepped forward.

Jurko’s eyes filled with tears.

“I... I don’t know what to say,” he said.

“We all love you, ataman,” said Kuryło, answering for the men.

“Well, you idiots, if I take you all, Bohdan will think I’m invading,” said Jurko. “Pick me an entourage of thirty or so men, and I leave it to Kuryło to sort it out.”

 

 

Disembarking from barges in good order, the honour guard lined up ready for their prince. Their pack animals carried tents for camping, in a grander style than the shovel masters usually considered suitable, and a tent or two looted from the Russians, as well as a military awning, might have found their way into the baggage.  Jurko’s men knew what he considered suitable display, and it didn’t live up to their notion of the same. The Korybut austerity might impress other military men, but this was a blatant display for peasants. They were pleased the ataman was at least wearing red boots and some of his fine brocade. Helena looked like a queen, and Jaromka rode his own Cossack pony with the aplomb of a veteran, looking every one of his nine years a princeling.

He was carrying his father’s ensign, a red shield with the Korybut arms over a ground of yellow waves on blue water. A Hussar carried the flag of the combined Sarmatian Rzeczpospolita, and a Cossack held the Ironfist Cossack banner of the shovel-masters, the mailed fist of the original flag now displayed over a bayoneted musket crossed with a spade.

 

The company pranced into the little village, to set up camp on common land. Naturally, everyone turned out to see the splendid display. None of them who had not travelled into the city had ever seen a winged hussar before, and there were murmurs from the impressed peasantry.  They were even more impressed, as the hussars thundered down the street, when the leader detected the tottering figure of a small child who had wandered with more curiosity than healthy caution into the middle of the road, its mother having lost sight of the child. The leader was Jan Skrzetuski, of course, and he veered his horse slightly and swung out of his saddle with the agility of a Cossack, despite his armour and wings, to scoop the infant up out of the way of the plunging hoofs.

The little girl, as she turned out to be, sat in front of him laughing in delight at her ride.

“Well, you’re born to marry a prince of the Commonwealth, no doubt,” laughed Jan. The frantic mother had run behind the charge and Jan handed the child down to her.

“I wager she’ll be a warrior some day,” he said. “What’s her name?”

“Jurijana, my lord, after the prince,” gasped the woman. “They say he lived here, once.”

“An auspicious name, and my best friend, Prince Jurij, will be honoured,” said Jan, gravely.

This also told them who was here, and the crowd gathered to watch the efficient display of setting up camp inside of half an hour, the hussars apparently not beyond doing labour to get everything just so. Ihor, as bugler, gave orders by short bursts of music, and other orders were relayed by sign language, not an order being spoken. It was an impressive display.

Jurko was pleased that he could be assured of a camp being set up in as orderly a fashion by the men trained by him, if they were several thousand strong.

 

Installed under his awning, which made Jurko raise an eyebrow, he found himself approached by a better-dressed man, and his wife, whom Jurko recognised. He was pleased to note that though Nadochka was not yet forty, being eight years older than he was, she had lines of discontent already.

“Your highness, my lady and I would be delighted to accommodate you,” said the man, covertly admiring Jurko’s boots. His own boots were yellow, the tops plainly made for another calf and fitted onto his own sole, not especially well.

“As I recall, your name is Anton Fedorchuk,” said Jurko.

“Why, your highness, I had no idea I was known to you!” stuttered the szlachcic, looking impressed with himself, and flattered.

His wife was staring at Jurko, with a look of dawning realisation and horror on her face.

Jurko smiled.

It was not a pleasant smile, and older villagers who remembered Jarema ‘Ironfist’ Wiśniowiecki when he was known as ‘the Hammer of the Cossacks’, shuddered at the similarity.

“Well, Fedorchuk, I hardly think you want to give houseroom to a ‘dirty little ragamuffin thief,’ now, do you?”

“My prince? What can you mean?” asked Fedorchuk.

“Ask your wife; she’s realised who I am,” said Jurko. “And she’s worrying in case I counted the blows, hard words, and one beating with a broom in case having the bastard brat around interfered with her chances with the one local szlachcic. A man who kicked a child in the head for going over to him as he rode in because the child was entranced by the beautiful horse he rode and wanted to pet it. And who laughed with Nadochka over a giddy and concussed little boy being sick in the ditch, taunting him that he was wasting the charity food her mother gave him. No, I don’t want to stay with you. The only time I will ever take pleasure in staying anywhere near your property is when I dance on your grave. You didn’t even redeem yourself by taking in your mother-in-law when Timosz let his wife throw her out.”

“But... but she’s a peasant.”

“The Lady Gosia eats at my table; I do not forget,” said Jurko. “Get the hell out of my sight.”

Fedorchuk and his wife stumbled away. Their teenage son lingered, and bowed.

“I have no quarrel with you, son,” said Jurko, gently.

“Thank you, my lord prince,” said the boy. “Thank you for making revenge no more than humiliation. I know you could do much, much more.”

“What’s your name, lad?” asked Jurko.

“Osyp, my lord prince.”

“Osyp, you are a man with more understanding than your parents. If you want to ride in my train as one of my pages and learn to be a shovel-master, be packed and ready to leave with us on the morrow. A man of honour is always welcome in my household, and it would please Mama Gosia to have a real grandson about the place.”

Osyp flushed.

“I used to visit and listen to stories until Nina threw her out,” he said. “And Papa said it was as well not to associate with peasants, who did not really count as my cousins.” He paused. “Ksenija is ten; and her stepmother is not nice to her too.  Would... would grandmama take her?”

“Now, if I was joined by a pair of little boy pages, I would be delighted,” said Jurko, gravely, and quietly.

Osyp beamed.

“Thank you, my lord prince.”

“Lord-brother does fine for members of my household and troops,” said Jurko.

 

 

 

“Inform Timofey Griszczuk that I will see him,” said Jurko, when it became apparent that the man was not going to come on his own. “And his wife. Or dog, whichever he calls her.”

There were a few winces from those hanging around at this studied insolence.

Timofey Griszczuk was brought, his wife apparently not apprised of the prince’s comments on her, as she was simpering.

“You’re the sołtys, Timosz,” said Jurko. “Shouldn’t you have checked out what an armed band was doing in the vicinity?”

“I did not want to put myself forward, knowing that we were childhood companions,” said Timofey.

“You fool!” his wife hissed.

“Childhood companions, yes,” said Jurko. “You were decent to me, Timosz, you did not grudge your mother feeding the bastard brat of the neighbourhood mule-for-hire, ridden by everyone. You didn’t judge me, and you taught me how to fish. Now, normally, I would look back with pleasure, and if I needed someone trustworthy in the vicinity, it would have been you to whom my thoughts turned. But then, you threw that all away, didn’t you?”

“I... Jurij, I don’t know what you mean.”

“No?” Jurko’s voice was silky. “What I mean is how you used your mother.”

“My mother decided to go to the city, without even saying goodbye,” said Timofey. “I was rather hurt that she should act so.”

Jurko regarded him narrowly.

“That’s not the way she tells the story,” he said.

“Oh, that lying old besom! She sought you out to cause trouble, didn’t she, Prince Jurij?” screeched the wife.

Or dog.

Jurko regarded her.

“No, she did not seek me out, I found her,” he said. “She said that you did not like her, and she was no longer welcome in her son’s household. She did not report the words you used, but I wager you told her that your husband did not want her, you bitch. Was her presence stopping you slutting around while your husband’s duties took him to far-flung farmsteads? Or did you just find the presence of a fine woman demeaned you by being so much better than you that you could feel it? Do you know the one thing which prevents me from ordering you divorced and your children bastards?”

“You wouldn’t do that to any other child, Jurij,” said Timofey.

“Your husband knows me,” said Jurij.

“I swear, I did not know that she behaved so!” said Timofey.

“Or that she ill-treats your oldest daughter, who has asked for sanctuary?” said Jurko. “I will grant her that, and teach her to be a warrior in my household, like all Korybut women, and if you write to her – I know you can write – I will see that she replies, and maybe you can build up trust in her again, which you have lost for putting her under the female you married. Really, Timosz! Led around by your dick, much? She’ll never have the beauty of serene contentment your mother has, and she’s already a nag. But if you divorce her, you keep the children of the union. Even if they are another man’s. It’s your fault for not noticing if they are.”

“Yes, Jurij,” said Timofey. “Ksenija has my blessing in your household.”

“I am glad to hear that,” said Jurko. “I will stay in touch.”

Timofey bowed down to the ground, and grabbed his protesting wife by the arm, leading her, shrieking, away. He appeared to have a lot to say to her.

“Well, he might grow a pair,” said Jurko, to Helena.

“If he doesn’t, he can whistle for your patronage,” said Helena.

 

 

 with the first one leading to this, I'm afraid that Eagle and Falcon has an unbalanced 41 chapters, one more than the other two. But it does rather scream to be included, to balance chapter 1. I was able to insert the two pieces between 37 and 38