Jermak in England 1

Chapter 1 Autumn 1648



“I suppose you’re some kind of Papist, Colonel Or-zell?” asked the austere de facto leader of the British Parliament. He regarded the, to him, outlandishly dressed young man in amazement. The man wore a gaudy long coat of brocade in golds and browns and black, the split sleeves hanging entirely loose, not merely open with the wrists in the cuffs as some of the more fanciful fashions of the west dictated. Under the hem of this garment might be seen trousers of considerable width, which neither fastened to the knee nor hung with beribboned or lace edges, but tucked into neat, soft boots. His dark hair was in a single lock which hung from the centre of his otherwise shaven head as he doffed the extraordinary fur hat to bow down to the ground, in a very different fashion to the western making of a leg. His sword.... was very workmanlike and large.

“It’s Orzeł, my lord. Eagle, it means. And, my lord, I don’t ask your religion nor make any comment on it, and perhaps you will do me the courtesy to do likewise,” said Jermak. “We both love God; let us leave it at that, for I wager when we both stand before the Almighty, naked and stripped of all human vanity, he will explain to us both how mortal men’s forms of worship fall short of His design, and we shall run, exposed and ashamed, on His mighty palm until we are forgiven the transgressions we repent, and permitted into Paradise. How can any mortal man frame the Almighty in such a way as to comprehend His will? To try to do so is arrogance, and pride, and a deadly sin.”

Cromwell stared. Then he nodded.

“Well spoken, young man; I hear the sincerity in your voice. I like a man who knows his own mind and is not afraid to speak it; your king has chosen well.”

Jermak hid a grin that Prince Jeremi Wiśniowiecki had suggested his name to King Jan Kazimierz, to get Jermak out of the way of Chmielnicki who had taken it into his head that Jermak was some kind of spymaster, because of his ward, Ninochka, sending intelligence to Jeremi.

“I’m a plain, blunt man, my lord, and I believe in plain, blunt speaking,” said Jermak.

“Good; I shall like you the more for it,” said Cromwell. “Your wife, as I understand, is the child of a Royalist.”

“Nominally,” said Grace. “My father, Charles Greville, believed firmly in the divine right of Charles Greville, and it got him poisoned by a Russian Prince. I am a believer in the Royal Commonwealth of Poland-Lithuania, but as a native English speaker, I am of use to my husband. We elect our kings in Poland, from those eligible, which seems more sensible than strict primogeniture. I knew both the deposed king’s young sons, and unless they’ve improved, I wouldn’t trust either of them with the running of more than a whelk stall in Billingsgate.”

A rare smile ghosted across Cromwell’s face.

“They teach you to be forthright in Poland,” he said.

“We’re Polish Cossacks; the word ‘Cossack’ means free man,” said Grace. “In its literal interpretation, not the freed-man of ancient Rome, who was a freed slave. We have a patron in Prince Jeremi Wiśniowiecki, who put forward our names as ambassadors, but for mutual loyalty only. We named our eldest for him.”

“There are others logged as your children who are surely too old for either of you to be parents to?”

“Our adopted children; yes,” said Jermak. “The Tatars raid, and seize young people for slaves. Sadly, many communities will not take them back, declaring them dead, because they cannot cope with the trauma such youngsters have been through. Even those not deflowered. We were in a position to rescue a number. One community took their own back; another ... did not. We split them between my Uncle Osyp and his English wife and ourselves, and also the orphaned daughter of the szlachcic ... the lord ... of the lands I inherited. Kamila and Aleksandra are both fifteen. They are adequate warriors and can take care of themselves. They wish to be as martial as my wife and aunt, who learned to be warriors through your civil war.”

“Women have no place in war,” said Cromwell.

“Tell that to the rapacious soldiers who overrun cities raping, looting and burning,” said Grace.

“My men do not do that.”

“My lord, you are a strong warlord like Prince Jeremi. Not all are,” said Grace, dryly. “I can defend my lord’s lands at need, and my son, and our adopted daughters.”

She did not mention that she disliked Prince Jeremi intensely.

She disliked Cromwell intensely too.

And she suspected that if he thought his soldiers behaved themselves, he was fooling nobody but himself. Soldiers under bloodlust commit acts unthinkable to them outside of war.

“Well, I will assign you a bodyguard, none the less; a man who will be there to help prevent any misunderstandings between different cultures,” said Cromwell, dryly. “I am sure that without some mediation, you may find yourself in more conflicts than you would like.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Jermak. “I enjoy a good brawl, any Cossack does! And if any offend against me who carry steel, I’ve no problem in killing them.”

“I, however, have a problem with you killing them,” said Cromwell. “I don’t say duels don’t happen because they do, but it is to be avoided. As are... brawls. I can find you somewhere to live while you are here...”

“You do not need to bother, we took a house in Watling Street. We liked the look of St. Mary’s Aldermary church; we are sufficiently ecumenical not to make a fuss about the service not being as we are used to,” said Grace.

“And the road is so delightfully narrow, it is defensible,” said Jermak. “Makes me feel safer, somehow.”

Cromwell glared at him. Damned independent Cossacks! They should be grateful t o him for looking after them, not setting themselves up to protect themselves.

“I also have orders from my king to tender apologies to yours that he has been unable to send military support to him, because we have had some trouble at home,” said Jermak. “And you can afford to be generous in permitting me to meet with him, since you wouldn’t be sitting there had we sent a few thousand winged hussars and as many Cossacks to aid him militarily, since we are the pre-eminent warriors in Europe, and the only infantry capable of holding before a winged hussar charge are Cossack infantry. Your pikes are too long to be much good,” he added, “And your muskets too slow to reload. So, we come in diplomacy instead, and the offer to negotiate a settlement between you, as representative of your Sejm... parliament... and your king. As well as to point out that if you prefer to be a republic, we’ve been doing it successfully for a long time, and to offer treaties.”

Cromwell managed not to grind his teeth.

“It is too late for such negotiations, and I cannot think that your troops would have made any difference. I recognise that you exaggerate over sending thousands.”

“Why would I exaggerate?” said Jermak, surprised. “A battle is usually fought by many thousands on each side.”

If this shook Cromwell, he kept it to himself.

“I will consider having you escorted to meet Charles Stuart, former king of England,” he said.





oOoOo



The Poles found the streets to be tense. Soldiers patrolling prevented open violence, but there appeared to be distinct divisions between royalists and parliamentarians, even amongst the common townsfolk. They appeared to be waging war by song. Some young men sneaked up behind the soldiers, and sang, at first all together

Three merry boys came out of the west to make saltpetre strong

They turned it into gunpowder to charge the king’s cannon!

Three merry boys came out of the west to make saltpetre strong

They turned it into gunpowder to charge the king’s cannon!

Then they broke into a round,

And let his health go round and round and let his health go round

And let his health go round and round and let his health go round

Which being repeated several times, a second part came in,

And though my stocking be made of silk my knee shall touch the ground

And though my stocking be made of silk my knee shall touch the ground

Returning to the previous line and finishing in unison,

God bless his majesty

And send him victory

Over his enemies, over his enemies,

All or none. [1]

Jermak was amused by the way they approached to sing their line and then dodged back as the irritated soldiery turned. The soldiers were grim in their buff coats and striped sleeves, and very businesslike helmets, not quite as effective as the hussars’ szyszak helms but for plainly mass-produced pieces of armour, fairly effective.

Some supporters of the soldiery took up singing their own song to try to drown out the royalists, and sang psalms, loudly.

“They aren’t as tuneful as our psalms,” said Grace, critically.

“I love that you are so much one of us as to prefer our psalms,” said Jermak. “No, they don’t seem very jolly, do they?”

The royalists jeered, and countered,

It’s a mad world my masters

Where kings may lose their crowns

And commoners take prominence

Set up yet soon put down.



The captain of the guard appeared to have had enough by now, and called his men to run off the tuneful royalists. One of them dodged around Jermak and his party, and with a flourish, presented Kamila with a cockade from his hat, which he hastily doffed to the women.

“Cheeky,” said Aleksandra.

“Yes, but handsome too,” laughed Kamila. “Like Papa; dashing.”

“I did not care for his manner,” said Aleksandra. “I felt him forward.”

Kamila frowned.

“I know what you mean, but young men can be brash.”.



The guard turned and came up to the small party.

“I trust those ne’er do weels didnae cause ye any throuble,” said the captain. He was a tall, rawboned man in his twenties, with a nose which had been broken at some time, and ginger hair, as might be seen when he doffed his helmet to the ladies. Unlike the beribboned and belaced bravos, his garb was sober in hue, and his piccadill, the broad linen collar, and his cuffs were devoid of lace, though of the finest linen.

“Are they ne’er do wells?” asked Kamila.

“Aye, iphm, being royalists for one thing, and o’ the ilk o’ sich over-indulged wee hellions as cause throuble for the sake o’it,” he replied.

“We’re royalists for our own king,” said Jermak. “We’re Polish; we elect our kings.”

“Weel, if they elected kings here, we’d mebbe no’ hae oor current problems,” said the captain. “If ye need onything, I’m Captain Somerled Macfarlane.”

“Thank you, Captain Macfarlane,” said Jermak. “fairly self-sufficient, but you appear to be having an exciting time of things at the moment.”

“Exciting! Aye, weel, I micht ca’ it ither things, but exciting will mebbe do the noo,” said Macfarlane. “Ye’ll mebbe be the outlandish folks Ah wis tae find and put masel’ at the disposal o’ ye.”

“I think you’ll find we’re ordinary Poles in an outlandish country without need of disposal,” said Jermak.

“Och, I mean that ye may use us for escorts and defence o’ yer household,” said Macfarlane. “It’s easy tae get confused wi’ the factions, and end up inadvertently in trouble.”

“Oh, I believe I understand,” said Jermak. “You’d not want us to be in a situation to attempt to liberate the king from his current gaol and spirit him to rule in exile. That isn’t in my instructions, only to offer him succour in exile if he is permitted to flee the country; or indeed if any of his followers rescue him. Please be aware that I have no desire to rescue a foreign king and thereby risk my family. I’ve no interest in England. If you did the civilised thing of electing your kings, and if my wife were of a royal house to add distinction to our offspring, I’d consider standing for election. But as she is not, I’d be wasting my time.”

“Losh, man! You’ve an awfu’ cheek,” said Macfarlane.

“You never get anywhere without cheek,” said Jermak.






[1] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kzBm0uuPrb0

the princess and the cossack 1

 

Written from before Helena saw Bohun brain a man in front of her, at a time when she listened still wide-eyed to the stories he and her cousins told of their derring do. This assumes Helena overheard a certain conversation, and decided to be frank with Jurko.

 

 

Kurylo looked at his kinsman and ataman and laughed. The handsome young Cossack had his arms full of jewels and gold, and carried some woman’s headdress stiff with jewels by the expedient of putting it on his own dark, unruly locks.

“The harem princess look doesn’t go with the bloodstains, ataman,” he said.

Jurij Bohun grinned at him, his even teeth very white in his regular tawny face.

“How else am I to carry it?” he asked. His sea-coloured eyes danced with fun knowing that he looked ridiculous. He had not looked ridiculous to the Janissaries he had recently been slaying with his quick sabre.

“Don’t you have enough?”

“You can never have enough loot. Besides, I am depriving the Turks of it, and every złoty’s worth taken from them is one they cannot spend on war.  Also, I need to impress the old princess.”

Kurylo made a face.

The princess was the mother of the Kurcewiczowie often accompanied Bohun and his Cossacks on their raids on the Tatars and the Sultanate, and Kurylo was not certain it was healthy. The five –or four since the oldest had been captured and blinded – might  be technical princes but in fact fulfilled the Polish proverbial description of dirt-poor szlachciura as ‘bare foot but with spurs.’

“We are your brothers, not them,” he said.

“I ... it is a place of roots, of a kind,” said Bohun. “I have no father that I know of.”

Kurylo shrugged.

“So? It is not uncommon.  You fancy their cousin.”

Bohun flushed.

“She’s still little more than a child,” he said, defensively.

“You want her. So wait until she’s old enough, and take her,” said Kurylo.

“I can’t do that! She’s a szlachcianka; more, a princess, and ... and I want to marry her.”

“You do have it bad. Well, with this haul, why not enter negotiations with the old woman and get it all settled?”

“I ... yes, I might,” said Bohun. “She tells me to call her ‘mother’ but I think all her love goes to the loot I take, which she sincerely adores.  I don’t like how she treats Helena either; calls her a burden, and slaps her readily which she’d never have dared do when her husband was alive. And her sons take some of their tone from her, and though they are not unkind as such to the child, they make like they look down on her. I ... I know what that is like,” he muttered. “It destroys the spirit. I fear that many years more of it will leave her cowed, and the spirit of fun gone from her.”

 

 

 

oOoOo

 

Helena Kurcewiczówna listened to a conversation between her cousins’ friend, Jurij Bohun, and her aunt. She was shocked at herself for listening, knowing that eavesdropping was seriously rude, and that eavesdroppers rarely hear good of themselves.

But he loved her!

Her father had loved her, but did not take her with him when he went into exile.

Her uncle loved her, but he died.

Wassylij, her blind cousin, was kind to her.

Love ... that was to crave for. Maybe Bohun wasn’t as scary as he sometimes looked. Certainly when he laughed, his sea-coloured eyes crinkled in his dark, handsome face, and at the sides of his long, elegant moustaches, dimples lurked. Oh he was sweet when he laughed; and he was handsome all the time. He was newly promoted Captain of Registered Cossacks, and he had come to show off his new title, she supposed, as well as more loot from another raid. Rozłogi dripped with fine fabrics from the adventures he and her cousins had, and they told many a story in the evenings. It sounded exciting.

 

 

Helena lurked, in order to accost him.

Helena was just fifteen years old, and she was a princess. Not that it meant much. She had been effectively orphaned at the age of four, when her father, Wassylij had been accused of treason and had fled. Her Uncle Konstantin had done his best for her until he had died, and then her governess had been dismissed, and though not treated quite as a servant, she was expected to do all the sewing and mending for the family, and her uncouth aunt had no good word for her. The old princess was a Cossack woman with the barest veneer of sophistication. Illiterate herself, she had never seen a reason to have her sons taught the skills which marked the difference between szlachta and the peasantry. Effectively, Helena  felt as though she had gone from being raised as a princess to being a peasant, and that would have been hard, but bearable if she had only been loved. With the dubious care of a cold, hard woman she was miserable.

 

“Jurko, may I speak to you?” Helena asked when he had left her aunt and was striding towards the stable.

Jurko Bohun smiled at Helena. She was barely a woman, but the promise of beauty lay upon her, if one looked past the gawkiness of a teen-aged girl.  Her features were regular and her hair a rich brown, echoed in her big, beautiful eyes.

“Of course, princess,” he replied to her.  How solemn her dark eyes were! She should not need to look so solemn, so ready to cringe from hurt, her eyes should laugh.

“I overheard,” she said, abruptly. “I overheard you bargaining my dowry to my aunt for my hand in marriage, to let her keep Rozłogi.”

He was disconcerted, and gave her the curious upwards glance through his brows which subconsciously she read as a man hurt too often to look straight.

“I know it’s your house, but do you think she’d ever let you take it?” he asked, softly. “She’d find a way. And she’s quite ruthless. Any husband of yours who did not surrender it ...” he left the thought hanging. “It wasn’t an attempt to rush you into marriage,” he added, hastily. He gazed at her with his liquid, sea-green eyes.

“I hate my aunt,” said Helena. “But I don’t know you. You spend all your time with my cousins, and they call me ‘little girl’ and despise me.  If I marry you, I’d want you to keep your promise to the letter, and permit her to remain, but not as head of the house. I’d want her in a servant’s room, not the chatelaine of my house.”

He chuckled, and his dimples danced.

“Oh, very clever, Halszka! I did not specify anything,” he said. “She wouldn’t take it lying down.”

“Have you any idea what she really thinks of you, Jurko?” said Helena, in a cold, hard little voice. “She encourages you to call her ‘mother’, and calls you her falcon. Behind your back she gloats to me about how clever her sons were to cultivate your friendship as you fill the dwór with riches in your craving to have a real family. She wants you to bed her, you know; I’ve seen her watching you, and she has that look ... you know.” She blushed. “When she says ‘my falcon’ to you, she ... her eyes burn. And I don’t suppose any agreement over my fate would remain ...unaltered. Nor do I think she would hesitate for a moment if she thought she could get a better deal selling me to someone else. I think the only reason she hasn’t given me to her sons to play with, apart from them having a shred or two of decency left, is because I’m a commodity.”

“Hell!” said Jurko, shocked. “I ... my cuckoo, I can’t let her treat you like that.”

“Jurko, take me with you on your next raid, and teach me to be brave enough to stand up to her, and let me get to know you,” she said, impulsively.

“What?” he was nonplussed.

“You and my cousins seem to enjoy yourselves, so take me with you.  I want to have fun too, and being stuck here with her is no fun at all. Please, Jurko! Then I will understand you better.” She laid a slender hand on his chest.

“Sweet Helena, we fight.” He laid his shapely, capable hand on hers. She felt the calluses on his hand from gripping a sabre.

“Then teach me sabre so I can fight with you.” It was a rash suggestion, impulsive; if she had not been feeling so down at having been beaten so hard for clumsy stitchery before Jurko had come and lifted her spirits by declaring love for her, she might never have spoken so.

He flushed.

“We ... we  fight the Turk and the Tatars. And ... and sometimes there are female slaves...” he tailed off.

She looked at him in horror.

“Jurko!  If  ... if  the Tatars came when you were away, we would have no defence and the next slave girl you wanted to use might be me. You know how my aunt hates me; can you guarantee that she would not bargain to hand me over?”

He gasped in horror, and tears sprang to his emotional eyes.

“Halszka! I could not bear that! I had not thought of it.”

“I ... I think you would be such a bohatyr if you rescued the women and children, and brought them back,” said Helena, turning her big dark eyes on with full intensity.

“Go steal clothing from your cousin Mikołaj’s room; he’s the nearest to you in size,” said Jurko. “We’ll have to cut your hair.”

She gasped; it was shameful for a woman to have her hair cut save on her wedding night, but for her own safety ... Helena reasoned that in a way, it marked her marriage to Jurko.

 

 

Captain Bohun regarded his men.

“Right, you depraved goat-fucking good-for-nothing Cossacks, no more screwing the slaves,” he said. “You want to touch, you bought it and you chose a wife. We’re bringing them all back, to prove it can be done, that we do not have to be at ransom to the Tatars. What, is a quick screw worth more to you than living eternally in glory as heroes?”

The young boy beside him turned approving, worshipful eyes on him, and Jurko’s cup ran over.

“You’re our ataman,” said one of the older Cossacks. “May we ask why?”

“We need to improve our position,” said Jurko. “You know the rumblings amongst the Cossack atamans who have been badly treated by the Lach[1] landowners. And you also know how nothing good has ever come of it. When it happens again, we must be so famous, so covered with glory that we are not mistrusted, not made scapegoats. We have it good with our life fighting for Poland, and we have plunder besides, and our Pułkownik is indulgent, but Prince Jeremi neither likes nor trusts us. We need to have enough popular support to avoid him demonising us.”

This caused a mutter of approval. Jurko knew that it was affection and respect for himself which would be the deciding factor in whether his men joined the next charismatic leader of the Sich; and proud as he was of his Cossack roots, he craved acceptance by true szlachta, not just those like the Kurtzewiczowie.

 

“Jurko,” said Helena, “I know you don’t like Prince Jeremi Korybut Wiśniowiecki, but my father was his father’s man ...you told me my father was cleared, which my aunt has never done.  I wondered if we should ... you know, write to him, and tell him the situation.”

“I don’t write so good,” said Jurko, flushing a dull red.

“I can teach you, when we are on the ship, and not doing a lot,” said Helena.

“I ... yes, I would like that,” said Jurko. “But will you write?  I can append my name.”

“Yes, I will,” said Helena. “And let us get that sent with one of your Cossacks.”

 

 

“To my dread lord and prince, Jeremi Wiśniowiecki, herbu Korybut,”  wrote Helena, who was copying the style of official letters she had seen.

“Written by the hand of Helena Kurcewiczówna-Bułyha for herself and for Jurij Bohun, Captain of Cossacks. My prince, it is Captain Bohun who has told me that my father’s name was cleared, my aunt still informing me that I am the daughter of a traitor, who should be grateful for her care of me.

As I understand it, I am heir of Rozłogi, but Captain Bohun has told me that my aunt has told him that if he will blink at her keeping the house and lands for herself and her sons, my cousins, he might have me in marriage. My prince, my Cossack captain is a true knight who does all he might to protect me; my cousins are kindly, but they are simple men, and in the thrall of their mother, my aunt. I have left Rozłogi in the guise of a boy, under the captain’s protection, since I cannot bear the slights, the lies and the cruelty of my aunt any longer. I do not count her as my legal guardian, but I consider you to be so, and I beg your leave to marry my captain when I am of a better age so to do, and that you will give him dominion over Rozłogi. He will not break his oath, which he swore to protect me, for my aunt would, I feel, sell me to any man who wanted me if she could keep her home. But he never said where she might have her chamber ...

This is the situation, my prince, and I go with Captain Bohun on a raid even as this is sent, because the privations of warfare are preferable to another night being abused and beaten by my aunt.

Written this day, some time in August by the Polish calendar

Helena Kurcewiczówna-Bułyha.

Jurij Bohun, Captain of Cossacks”

Jurko added his signature to hers.

“He is good to those who put their trust in him,” he said.  “I will try to do so, my cuckoo, my darling.”

“Oh, Jurko, you make me feel so safe,” sighed Helena.

“I hope I will always keep you safe,” said Jurko, emotion flooding him. “And to that end I will drill you mercilessly with the sabre, so you might protect yourself.”

 

“Who’s the whelp, ataman?” asked Kurylo.

“A connection of the Kurzewiczowie,” said Jurko, nonchalantly. Helena was sitting on the ground, clutching the pain of a stitch in her side where he had pressed her mercilessly in sabre drill.

“Not very well trained,” said Kurylo.

“Not trained at all,” said Jurko. “Education neglected entirely for being an unwanted whelp. I’ll lick him into shape, though.”

“Aye, well, you’d know about that,” said Kurylo. “Has he the fire to come through being unwanted? You’re exceptional.”

“Yes, he’ll get there,” said Jurko. “The will is strong in him, stronger than his physical strength which is negligible. He can read and write, and was kept as sedate as a girl.”

“Poor brat,” said Kurylo. “Are you training him to be an officer under you?”

“Yes,” said Jurko.

 

---

[1] Somewhat derogatory word for a Pole

Jermak in england opening

 a bit fragmentary, this one, but it's what I've done a bit of work on, because it came to me.

Chapter 1

 

“I suppose you’re some kind of Papist, Colonel Orzel?” asked the austere de facto leader of the British Parliament. He regarded the, to him, outlandishly dressed young man in amazement. The man wore a gaudy long coat of brocade in golds and browns and black, the split sleeves hanging entirely loose, not merely open with the wrists in the cuffs as some of the more fanciful fashions  of the west dictated. Under the hem of this garment might be seen trousers of considerable width, which neither fastened to the knee nor hung with beribboned or lace edges, but tucked into neat, soft boots. His dark hair was in a single lock which hung from the centre of his otherwise shaven head as he doffed the extraordinary fur hat to bow down to the ground, in a very different fashion to the western making of a leg. His sword .... was very workmanlike and large.

“My lord, I don’t ask your religion nor make any comment on it, and perhaps you will do me the courtesy to do likewise,” said Jermak. “We both love God; let us leave it at that, for I wager when we both stand before the Almighty, naked  and stripped of all human vanity, he will explain to us both how mortal men’s forms of worship fall short of His design, and we shall run, exposed and ashamed, on His mighty palm until we are forgiven the transgressions we repent, and permitted into Paradise. How can any mortal man frame the Almighty in such a way as to comprehend His will? To try to do so is arrogance, and pride, and a deadly sin.”

Cromwell stared. Then he nodded.

“Well spoken, young man; I hear the sincerity in your voice. I like a man who knows his own mind and is not afraid to speak it; your king has chosen well.”

Jermak hid a grin that Prince Jeremi Wiśniowiecki had suggested his name to King Jan Kazimierz, to get Jermak out of the way of Chmielnicki who had taken it into his head that Jermak was some kind of spymaster, because of his ward, Ninochka, sending intelligence to Jeremi.

“I’m a plain, blunt man, my lord, and I believe in plain, blunt speaking,” said Jermak.

“Good; I shall like you the more for it,” said Cromwell. “Your wife, as I understand, is the child of a Royalist.”

“Nominally,” said Grace. “My father, Charles Greville, believed firmly in the divine right of Charles Greville, and it got him poisoned by a Russian Prince. I am a believer in the Royal Commonwealth of Poland-Lithuania, but as a native English speaker, I am of use to my husband. We elect our kings in Poland, from those eligible, which seems more sensible than strict primogeniture. I knew both the deposed king’s young sons, and unless they’ve improved, I wouldn’t trust either of them with the running of more than a whelk stall in Billingsgate.”

A rare smile ghosted across Cromwell’s face.

“They teach you to be forthright in Poland,” he said.

“We’re Polish Cossacks; the word ‘Cossack’ means free man,” said Grace. “In its literal interpretation, not the freed-man of ancient Rome, who was a freed slave. We have a patron in Prince Jeremi Wiśniowiecki, who put forward our names as ambassadors, but for mutual loyalty only. We named our eldest for him.”

“There are others logged as your children who are surely too old for either of you to be parents to?”

“Our adopted children; yes,” said Jermak. “The Tatars raid, and seize young people for slaves. Sadly, many communities will not take them back, declaring them dead, because they cannot cope with the trauma such youngsters have been through. Even those not deflowered. We were in a position to rescue a number. One community took their own back; another ... did not. We split them between my Uncle Osyp and his English wife and ourselves, and also the orphaned daughter of the szlachcic ... the lord ... of the lands I inherited. Kamila and Alexandra are both fourteen. They are adequate warriors and can take care of themselves. They wish to be as martial as my wife and aunt, who learned to be warriors through your civil war.”

“Women have no place in war,” said Cromwell.

“Tell that to the rapacious soldiers who overrun cities raping, looting and burning,” said Grace.

“My men do not do that.”

“My lord, you are a strong warlord like Prince Jeremi. Not all are,” said Grace, dryly. “I can defend my lord’s lands at need, and my son, and our adopted daughters.”

She did not mention that she disliked Prince Jeremi intensely.

She disliked Cromwell intensely too.

 

 

 

 

Ninochka's revenge 1

 ok, I ran out of steam on this one but I thought I'd post it as far as it went.  It's a sequel to The Cossack centred around one of the girls they rescued from the Tatars, who was so convinced her boyfriend would come for her and is certain his family and village ataman stopped him. 

She's got a lot to learn. 

Ninochka’s revenge

 

Chapter 1

 

“Kamila, I want revenge,” said Ninochka, to the younger girl whom she had thought of as her sister-in-law before disaster struck.

“I don’t think the Ataman will like it,” said Kamila. “I don’t think I do.”

“Perhaps not, but I ... it isn’t fair,” said Ninochka, tossing her cloud of dark hair.

“Oh, Ninochka, please do not hurt Bohdan; he is not good at disobeying, and nor are Ma and Pa.  It will be the orders of Ilya Shevchenko[1], who is so newly head of the family. He ... he would not go against custom.”

“Then he must learn that those abandoned through custom...” she spat out the word, “...will go against him. I ... I could understand that Bohdan and his parents might be afraid I was ... used ... when the Tatars kidnapped us, but that they do not welcome you back is insupportable.  Especially as Lady Hracja wrote and explained that she and the Ataman had rescued us all in time.”

“I ... I still think it is wrong, Ninochka,” said Kamila. “I grieved for my family as if they were dead, as Aleksandra grieved for her family who were killed by bandits. And we are now the Orzelówny, adopted by Lord Jermak and Lady Hracja, and ... and I am happier than I ever was before.”

Ninochka sighed.

“I am also happy, and I am pleased to learn to be a warrior as well; and I will study until I am good enough, and then I will go to the Sich, attach myself to Shevchenko, and when I have the opportunity I will humiliate him with swordplay and declare who I am and why I have done so. And I will spurn your parents.”

Kamila sighed.

Ninochka could be stubborn at times.

 

 

“You’re very single minded in your training, Ninochka,” remarked Jermak.

“Yes, my lord. I’ve revenge to contemplate,” said Ninochka.

“If you think I’m going to let you go off and raid Tatars, you can think again; even Jurko Bohun isn’t that crazy.  Well, probably not,” said Jermak, referring to his distant kinsman who was a legend through the Ukraine and Poland.

“I want revenge on my betrothed’s family,” said Ninochka.

“Little girl, is that right or fair? You are a warrior and it is plain that your Bohdan was ... not,” said Jermak.

“Oh, not on him, though I shall spurn him and his parents,” said Ninochka. “It will be the family head, Ilya Shevchenko.”

“I know something of him,” said Jermak. “He’s reckoned a man of honour, and a warrior of steel. If you fight him, you will lose.”

“If I humiliate him for fighting a girl, I win even if he kills me.”

“Now, that is foolishness,” snapped Jermak. “I can’t stop you going; but by the Mother of God, I will try to dissuade you. Or at the very least, tell you to be circumspect and go and see what the situation is, not do anything rash.”

“I will leave in the autumn, and learn all I might in the meantime,” said Ninochka, her usually warm brown eyes somehow holding a touch of frost.

Jermak sighed.

He could not hold her, save by making her a prisoner. And that was against his principles.

 

oOoOo

 

By autumn, Poland was at war with the Cossacks under Chmielnicki; and if Jermak hoped that this would deter Ninochka, he was mistaken.

With a heavy heart, and many tears from his wife, Grace, he outfitted the girl as a young Cossack man and sent her on her way with a commander’s kiss on the forehead.

A brave figure she made, having picked one of the best of the horses owned by the brigands, before the excess were sold.  A jaunty young Cossack, riding off to war, her beautiful hair shaved but for a scalp lock, hidden under her fur cap.

 

“It’ll be a miracle if she survives,” said Grace, as the girl rode out of earshot.

“Miracles do happen,” said Jermak. “We will pray for her.  The best we can hope for is that she has a fright or two, loses her nerve, and comes home.”

“I do not think revenge solves things,” sighed Grace.

“No; but there was no telling her that,” said Jermak.

 

oOoOo

 

 

Ninochka felt very alone, but reminded herself that she had her vengeance to keep her company. The Tatar incursions into the Ukraine and even deep into Poland were frequent, violent, and considered inevitable.  It was horrible, thought Ninochka, that it was something so routine that those stolen away were written off as dead to their families as they were assumed to be ‘spoiled’ from the moment of their kidnap. Nobody generally rescued those taken, and her own experiences, though horrible, and costing the life of her little brother, had been relatively benign.  Jermak did not hold any prejudice against those taken by Tatars, and had welcomed those spurned by their Cossack kindred, and praised the Polish village which had been raided for accepting their lost children back.

 There were several days of riding ahead of her, racing the onset of rasputitsa, the season of mud, crossing eastern Poland, and then on into the wild fields to find Shevchenko. She would have to negotiate crossing lines of hostility, and then hope to find him, and then be accepted into his service ... even the preliminaries were enough to make her quail.

She would not give up and go home, admitting defeat from her own treacherous cowardice. She would find him, and get close enough to him to learn all about him, and then ... well, if she got close enough to him, she would know the best way to defeat him, whether it was better to kill him or just humiliate him; or maybe take him prisoner and give him to Prince Jeremi.

 

The brooding youth who moved like a cat was given a wide berth in the inns where Ninochka stayed. Whether she was a loyal Pole going to join up, or a Cossack seeking to regain the Sich, nobody cared much, and old women crossed themselves as she passed, and old men spat, and were glad when she moved on at her restless pace.

Kijów was essentially closed; she must cross the mighty Dniepr by another route. It was a good time of year, before the rains came in earnest, to cross upstream of the rapids, and this she did, her sturdy steed swimming the wide river. Nobody challenged her; anyone who might have done so was so caught up in the rebellion of Chmielnicki, she could travel without meeting a soul, unless she came close to the bloody slaughter of the uprising.

She rode across the steppe on a fine, bright autumnal day, the grass seed smelling of baking bread beneath the still hot rays of the sun, and came at last to her erstwhile village. The raid had been swift and vicious, seizing children from outlying houses, whilst the adults were meeting to discuss something. She could not even bring to mind what it was, but the two burned out shells of houses were a reminder. One had been her own house; the other had been that of the parents of Lidija, Bozena and Nazar, now adopted by Jermak’s second in command and his English wife. Bohdan’s parents’ house had been repaired; there were some signs of burning, but they had robbed out the other two houses to make their own hut secure for the rest of the winter.

She could not resist going into what was left of what had once been her home.

There was nothing of any real value there, of course. Her grandmother had been killed outright, the moment the Tatars broke in, seizing her and her little brother, and Ninochka went over to where once the hearth had been, falling to her knees in the thick layer of charcoal to pray for her grandmother’s soul, and ask for her blessing. Putting her hand down to rise as she finished her prayers, she felt something cold and hard under her hand.

She dug, quickly; it was her grandmother’s crucifix! They would have taken what they could of the body to bury, but presumably it was so badly burned, the crucifix had fallen off.  She picked it up, and sobbed, as she cradled it to her. She could almost hear her grandmother’s voice, telling the story she had heard many times.

“Your grandpapa, Trofim, for whom your brother is named, was not well off, but he wanted to catch my attention to court me. He did not know I had noticed him, but I never spoke of it of course; a girl has to make a man show his interest before she will admit that she is interested too. Well, he had picked up a trophy from the Kosiński uprising; the nasal from a hussar helmet. It was delicately chased with gold set into the steel.  He knew no smithing, but he set out to learn enough, and from that nasal, he cut a cross, and offered it to me, on one knee. Oh! He was a dashing young man.”

Ninochka crossed herself, and kissed the beautiful cross, miraculously clear of rust, despite being buried for many months. She was unaware she had crossed herself in the Polish manner, having grown used to it, and put her grandmother’s cross on under her shirt. Somehow her pledge to seek vengeance was bound up with her prayers for her grandmother now, in a rather muddled fashion; and given the opportunity to ride against the Tatars, she would gladly have done so at this point. But Ilya Shevchenko was an attainable goal.

 

Ninochka exited the ruins of her family’s cottage, blissfully unaware of whether she might be observed, and rode on into the village.

 

oOoOo

 

Ilya Shevchenko was a young man, who had made his name fighting Tatars and Turks, and he had returned to his home village as village ataman and to see to the lands and tenants when his father died. It also made him head of an extended family.  It also enabled him to defer his decision to join the uprising of Chmielnicki.

Shevchenko had every belief in the rightness of Chmielnicki’s cause. However, he strongly suspected that going to war over the grievances of Cossacks would only end badly. He would follow Chmielnicki, of course, when it came down to it, but with a heavy heart.

In the meantime, his village was depleted by a Tatar raid at the end of the last winter, a raid effected whilst most of the adults of the village were celebrating his arrival to take the reins of duty. He was sore about that, and felt it was almost his fault that five youngsters from the edge of the village had been seized so easily, and several older people killed. He sighed.  Lands lay fallow with fewer people to till them, and the village still smarted under the loss. He returned to the village centre after having ridden out, and was confronted by a slender youth on a good horse, the boy’s upper lip shy of any growth as yet.

“My lord Ilya Shevchenko?” said the youth.

A ghost of a smile touched the landowner’s face.

“That’s a very Polish way of putting things,” he said.

“I have spent time in Poland,” said the youth.  “My father owed a debt of honour to yours, and he told me I should seek you out to repay it by being your page.”

“Page? I am not effete. I need no page,” said Shevchenko.

The boy, Ninochka, frowned.

“I could be useful,” she said. “I am literate.”

“Well that adds to your usefulness,” said Shevchenko. “Are you any good with figures?”

“I ... I can keep accounts,” said Ninochka. “I can calculate charges for cannon, too.”

“Well educated,” said Shevchenko. “Very well; my father left his papers in something of a muddle and I am still trying to sort them out. You can move into my household and aid me in that. And I’ll train you in the Cossack way in return, suit you?”

“Yes, my lord, eminently,” said Ninochka.

“I wish you will not call me that,” said Shevchenko.

“I can hardly call you ‘my lady,’” retorted Ninochka, tartly.

Shevchenko laughed.

“You can call me ‘Ataman’ if you like,” he said. 

“Yes, Ataman,” said Ninochka.

“And what is your name?” asked Shevchenko. “I can scarcely call you ‘boy’ all the time.”

“Antin,” said Ninochka, who had been christened ‘Antonina’ for her father.  “Antin Orel.” The Ataman had, after all, offered his name as well as his home to the refugees.

 

“Good,” said Shevchenko. “You have a good horse.”

“Yes, ataman,” said Ninochka.                                                                           

“Well, let us go to my home, and stable him, and you can become acquainted with the place.”

 

 

Shevchenko’s home was surrounded by a stockade like a dwór, and built in an L-shape, one leg being the stables, and the other the house. It was a house of log construction, but Ninochka knew that outward appearances could be deceiving.

It was not westernised within, as was the dwór Jermak occupied, but there was planking over the inside walls to ceil it from draughts, as well as the gaps between the logs looking from the outside to have been well plugged. No plaster adorned the ceilings, which were honest beams; she had seen a few windows in the roof.  Shevchenko showed her around; a kitchen with a pump, and a trapdoor to a cellar, a reception room for village business, a room with more books in than Ninochka had seen in her life, which had an air of being lived in, and the other side of the vestibule, two bedrooms. The kitchen was at the back of the house with small, high windows for light, but not easy to access by anyone climbing the stockade at the back. It was behind the vestibule which was also a reception room.

“My servants sleep upstairs and find it more comfortable to do so,” said Shevchenko. “I will not invade their territory to show it to you. You are not a servant; so you will use the guest bedroom, and if I have guests, you will have to move in with me.”

“Yes, ataman,” said Ninochka, hoping they would never have guests.

Well, she had arrived, and she was going to be close to him. Perhaps uncomfortably close.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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[1] Ylja Szewczenko? I’m using the transliteration into English from cyrillics.