The Seeds of Power Read online

  Colin was actually intrigued to assume the duties of estate manager, always with Smyslov at his shoulder to make sure he did not go wrong. He was first of all astounded at the size of the estate, which covered some two thousand square miles in area. There were several woods in which, according to Smyslov, there were both bears and wolves, not to mention foxes, to provide sport for the Prince and his family.

  Then there were enormous areas of pasturage, where the cattle were grazed, guarded always by a considerable body of armed men to protect them from the wild beasts. There were hills and valleys. There were lakes and a river. There were quarries where stone was hewn and lumberjack camps where felled trees were sawn up into logs. There were several villages, inhabited by people to whom the Prince Bolugayevski was only a name but still utterly controlled and dominated their lives. And above all there were the fields, still black and unpromising. But the wheat crop had been sewn and Smyslov assured him that come July they would be a sea of waving stalks, together with acre upon acre of cotton trees, the true fount of the family’s wealth.

  On Colin’s first tour of the property, he and Smyslov rode to the farthest eastern boundary, a journey which took eight days. They sat their horses on a ridge and looked down on more rolling countryside. ‘That is foreign land, for us,’ Smyslov said. ‘It belongs to Count Rashnikoff.’

  ‘Is he one of those who does not recognise the Prince? I mean, socially.’

  ‘Yes. It does not bother the Prince. Does it bother you, Mr MacLain?’

  ‘Hardly. I’m quite sure they don’t recognise me, either.’

  Their servants had already pitched camp on the reverse slope of the hill, as it was late afternoon. ‘We shall rest here for tomorrow, before starting back. Would you like a woman?’ Smyslov asked.

  ‘Is that all you people ever think about?’

  Smyslov grinned. ‘Women, and vodka. What else is there to think about?’

  ‘I suppose, not much,’ Colin agreed, certainly if you are a hired hand, existing in the midst of this vast nothingness, he thought. ‘Except, maybe, God.’

  ‘God is for church, on Sundays,’ Smyslov remarked.

  ‘I’m not sure Father Alexei would agree with you. Anyway, where are you going to find a woman out here?’

  ‘There is a village in the next valley.’

  ‘And you can just ride in there and take one of their women?’

  Smyslov grinned. ‘These are Jews.’

  ‘On our land?’

  ‘Oh, yes. The Prince allows them to stay there, because they are very industrious people. But he will not have them near the town, or the palace, of course.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because they are Jews.’

  ‘Good Lord! Are there many Jews in Russia?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Smyslov said, pouring vodka. ‘Far too many.’

  ‘And they will let you use their women? I have heard they are the most rigid of people in their sexual mores.’

  ‘Mr MacLain, they are rigid in everything. That is why they are so disliked. On the other hand, they have to have somewhere to live, so however much they may resent it, they have to accept whatever we inflict upon them.’ He drank vodka, and grinned. ‘Call it one of the taxes they have to pay, if you like. I am sending Dimitri over there now, to fetch one for me. I shall tell him to bring one for you, as well.’

  ‘Aren’t you afraid your wife will find out?’

  ‘My wife hardly expects me to absent myself from her bed for a fortnight without replacing her. I am sure the Countess holds the same opinion of you.’

  ‘I see.’ He wondered if she did. ‘But I don’t think I shall indulge tonight.’

  Smyslov raised his eyebrows. ‘Some of these women are really most attractive. And what makes them even more attractive is the fact that they hate us for taking them, and yet they know they must submit, because to resist might mean the destruction of their village.’ He winked. ‘There is no more interesting experience than having a woman who hates you, but is helpless.’

  ‘I think we are surrounded by all the hate we can stand,’ Colin said. ‘I’ll bid you goodnight.’

  He fell asleep to the sound of ribald laughter.

  *

  He sought Dagmar when, a week later, he regained the palace. She was in the library, playing chess with Alexandra. ‘Darling!’ She drew him down for a kiss. ‘I knew you were back; I heard the dogs barking. What do you think of our property?’

  ‘It is very impressive. May I have a word?’

  ‘Of course.’ She moved a piece.

  ‘In private?’

  She raised her eyebrows, but nodded. ‘What can you possibly say that I shouldn’t hear?’ Alexandra demanded.

  ‘I wish to speak with my wife,’ Colin said, patiently.

  ‘Your game is lost anyway,’ Dagmar said. ‘Your knight is out of play. You cannot hope to beat me virtually a piece down.’

  ‘Ha!’ Alexandra commented, and flounced to the door.

  ‘And close it,’ Dagmar said. ‘Now, what is troubling you? Come and sit down and tell me all about it.’

  He sat beside her, and told her about Smyslov and the Jews. ‘Jews!’ she said contemptuously. ‘They are not worth thinking about.’

  ‘They are human beings,’ he argued. ‘If you allow them to squat on your land, they must be properly treated. Just to enter their village and seize three of their women, rape them and then send them home again...that is barbaric.’

  ‘You really should not take up postures until you understand what you are speaking about,’ she sneered. ‘You say we treat them as if they were animals? That is because they are animals. They are pariahs. It is an act of charity on Papa’s part that they are allowed to squat, as you so aptly put it, on our land at all. There are many boyars who will not permit them on their property. There are many towns who will not have them inside their limits. Poltava is generous in this, at least under its present governor. It is not possible to be kinder or more humane to such people than we are. To make them move on would be to drive them to destruction. Believe me, they know how well off they are. And if they have to sacrifice the odd maidenhead, that is a small price for them to pay.’

  ‘For your extreme generosity in allowing them to live?’ Colin got up and went to the door.

  ‘Colin! Don’t go off in a rage. It is the way of the world. You cannot change it.’

  He checked at the door to look back at her. ‘Not even if I am the Prince?’

  She smiled. ‘But you are not the Prince, Colin, as you keep reminding me. You are only the acting Prince. Papa will soon be home. And Georgei too, whenever this stupid war ends.’

  He hesitated a moment longer, then threw the door open and stalked into the hall. And checked at the sound of a horn.

  Dagmar appeared at the library door. ‘What’s that noise?’

  ‘It’s the post!’ Instantly he was forgotten as she ran for the stairs. Indeed people were appearing from everywhere as the horn brayed again.

  ‘There’ll be a letter from Papa!’ Alexandra shouted, running down the next flight of stairs.

  ‘And one from Georgei!’ Dagmar cried.

  The horseman urged his mount into a gallop as he reached the drive, and saw the crowd of people gathered in the downstairs porch to greet him. He slid from the saddle, unslinging his satchel as he did so, and Igor gave him a glass of vodka. But Colin noted that he was trembling as he extended the bundle of letters. Dagmar snatched them from him, and immediately noticed the official envelope with the black edges. ‘From...Sevastopol! Oh, my God!’

  ‘Georgei!’ Alexandra screamed, snatching at the letter.

  Dagmar looked about to faint, and Colin hastily put his arm round her waist. Anna took the letter, and slit the envelope with her thumb. Her lips moved as she scanned the words. The servants waited in absolute silence. ‘Tell me!’ Dagmar shouted.

  ‘Georgei is dead,’ Anna said.

  CHAPTER FIVE - THE CONSPIRATOR

  The m
an behind the counter looked up as the bell jangled and the door opened. He was a bookseller, and had few customers. Now he regarded the tall, handsome woman with the auburn hair peeping out from beneath her headscarf; both scarf and gown informed him that she was unlikely to buy a book. He frowned, peering at her from behind his spectacles. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You are Monsieur Woskov?’

  ‘I am Woskov.’

  ‘I have the Will to come here,’ she said.

  Woskov uttered a gasp, and although they were alone in the shop gave a glance left and right. ‘Who sent you?’

  ‘Igor Bondarevski.’

  The shopkeeper continued to stare at her for several seconds. Then he said, ‘We had supposed the Will was finished, on Bolugayen.’

  ‘Because two were hanged? The Will is stronger than ever.’

  Woskov was looking more concerned. ‘You are not Russian,’ he said.

  ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘Everything matters in this business. Who are you?’

  ‘I am a servant in the Bolugayevski Palace. My name is Jennie Cromb.’

  ‘The Englishwoman! I have heard of you. And you pretend to be of the Will? How do I know you are not a spy?’

  ‘I used the password.’

  ‘Ha! You could have been given it by one of the Bolugayevskis. They could have tortured it out of Raspeen or the woman.’

  ‘They learned nothing from either of them,’ Jennie assured him.

  ‘Ha!’ he said again. ‘We have heard nothing from Igor for the past month.’

  ‘The estate is in mourning. Have you not heard that Count Bolugayevski is dead?’

  ‘I have heard this. Good riddance!’

  ‘The body arrives in a few days time, for burial,’ Jennie said. ‘Prince Bolugayevski is due back as well. Igor is of the opinion that we will never have a better time to strike a decisive blow. The Count is dead. When the Prince is also dead, then we shall see.’

  ‘Ha! What shall we see? The estate will be in the hands of the Countess Dagmar. No, she will be the Princess Dagmar. She is a devil, far worse than her father or her brother.’

  ‘It is our intention to remove the Countess as well. And her husband. And the Countess Anna. Only the Countess Alexandra of the family will survive. We know she is a liberal. In fact, we are sure she would be one of us, if she dared. She is only afraid of her father and brother...and her sister. With them out of the way...who can tell?’

  ‘You mean to murder five people, all at once?’

  ‘We mean to execute five people, all at once,’

  Jennie pointed out. ‘As they execute us, in batches.’

  ‘I do not like trusting foreigners,’ Woskov grumbled.

  ‘We are your best hope. Besides, what are you risking? Give me the gun, and then forget about it, and me, and the Will, if you wish.’

  ‘You think it is as simple as that? When they take you, they will hand you over to the police. Do you know what they will do to you?’

  ‘They will not take me,’ Jennie said.

  ‘They will brain your child before your eyes.’

  ‘He is not my child. He is Count Bolugayevski’s child.’

  ‘You are unnatural.’

  ‘I have been conditioned to be unnatural.’

  ‘And then do you know what they will do? They will force broken glass up your ass.’

  ‘I have said, they will not take me.’ Her voice was even, but there were pink spots in her cheeks.

  ‘And when they do that,’ Woskov went on, ‘you will tell them everything they wish to know. You will tell them about me, about this shop, about everything.’

  ‘Monsieur Woskov, I have been picked for this, out of all the members of the Will on Bolugayen, because I am the one in whom Igor Bondarevski has the most confidence. Now, will you give me the gun, or not?’

  Woskov glared at her, then went to one of the bookcases which lined the walls. From a shelf he took out several books, and from behind them lifted down a cloth bag.

  ‘You considered that well hidden?’ Jennie was aghast.

  ‘Nobody buys those books.’

  She untied the string and looked into the bag. ‘Do you know anything about such things?’ Woskov asked.

  ‘I will not be the one using it. But show me how it works, anyway,’ Jennie said, and took the revolver from the bag.

  ‘It is an American weapon, called a Colt,’ Woskov said. ‘It has this revolving part, called a chamber, you see? The chamber contains six bullets. You point it, and squeeze the trigger. The head hits the percussion cap on the bullet and fires it, and in the same instant moves the chamber round, so that the next bullet is ready to be fired. All six can be discharged in a matter of a few seconds.’

  ‘Where are the bullets?’

  ‘Let me see you squeeze the trigger, first.’

  Jennie levelled the gun at the wall, took a deep breath, and pulled her finger tight. The revolver jerked on to the empty chamber. ‘You would have missed the side of a house,’ Woskov said contemptuously.

  ‘I will practise,’ she promised. ‘Give me the bullets.’

  Woskov delved into another bookcase, and produced a box. ‘There are twelve in there.’

  ‘That will do very nicely. Now give me a book.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I came in here to make a purchase,’ she pointed out. ‘Give me Pushkin.’

  ‘Ha! Everyone wants to read Pushkin.’ He selected a volume and handed it to her. ‘Can you read?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I can read.’ She placed the book beside the revolver and the box of bullets in her satchel. ‘Thank you. I will not visit you again.’

  ‘I should hope not.’ He watched her walk to the door. She was a beauty. ‘I will wish you good fortune.’

  *

  Jennie stepped into the sunlight, and blinked. Then she hurried towards the market, and the rest of the Bolugayevski people. Normally either the Countess Dagmar or one of her sisters came into town on market days, but because they were in mourning the shopping party was commanded by Tatiana Smyslova, who was sitting impatiently in the cart. ‘Where have you been?’ she demanded.

  ‘I purchased a book, madame.’

  ‘A book? What book?’

  Jennie opened her satchel. Tatiana Smyslova inspected the volume then handed it back. ‘Stupid girl. Did you not know there is a complete set of Pushkin in the Prince’s library?’

  ‘I am not allowed in the Prince’s library, madame.’

  ‘Anyway, a serf, reading Pushkin? That is an absurdity. Come along now, hurry up. It is time we were on our way.’

  *

  Usually when the Bolugayevskis went shopping in Poltava they spent several days at their town palace. But today the palace was shuttered and silent. Almost Jennie felt sorry for them; their entire future had been built around Count Georgei. As had hers. But when she remembered that, her pity dissipated into anger and outrage. Of course she had gone with him of her own free will. He had offered her more money than she had ever dreamed of possessing. Presumably that made her a whore, although she had not been on offer to more than one man. And her dream of a London adventure and a return to Blaistone with her pockets jingling had ended very rapidly. The Count had been courtesy itself on the ride up to town, and when they had stopped for the night at an inn and he had come to her, he had treated her with all the gentleness of a lover. It had been a memorable night; she could have imagined no more romantic or beautiful way to lose her virginity. She had not been able to believe it was happening; he did mean to treat her as a lady.

  But then they had reached London. He had taken her to his lodgings, and said, ‘I like to tie my women up. Do you mind?’

  She hadn’t known what to reply. In view of how he had treated her up to then, she had not believed he could possibly wish to hurt her. She had clung to that belief even when, having stripped and been stretched on her face on the bed and tied by her wrists to the posts, he had gagged her mouth. ‘Can’t have you making a
noise and attracting attention,’ he had said. Then he had stripped himself.

  She had presumed she was going to have the experience of her life. And she had had that. He had beaten her mercilessly, and she had been unable to make a sound. Then he had lifted her buttocks and entered her with a series of quite savage thrusts, which had left her bleeding as if cut with a knife.

  Then he had released the gag. ‘If you scream,’ he said, ‘I will flog you again. The landlady is well paid.’

  *

  She had sought only escape, but his servant slept outside the door. And before she could make any plans she had been bundled up and taken out of the house and to the docks, where a Russian ship was waiting to carry the Count back to St Petersburg. She had thought she would go mad, as again she had been tied up, beaten and raped. Her misery had been compounded by seasickness, and an inability to communicate with anyone on board, save for the Count himself and his servant. She had rushed headlong into hell.

  He did not beat her every day, or even every week. Sometimes he could be gentle, and make love to her as if she were a lady. But this unpredictability was perhaps the hardest cross to bear, as she never knew when he would become violent. It was impossible to deduce what triggered his moods of anger. But he stopped beating her altogether when he realised she was pregnant. That had been the most fortunate thing that had ever happened to her. By then she had already become caught up in the immensity of time and space that was Russia, something she had never considered on Blaistone. Even the ride up to London, so strange and so exciting, had dwindled into nothing compared with the weeks at sea, the long passage through the Baltic, and the wonder of St Petersburg itself.

  She had had no more than a glimpse of the city before they had journeyed on, to Moscow. By the time they had got there her condition was obvious. Count Georgei had taken her to consult a midwife to make sure. Then they had celebrated. She had already become acquainted with vodka, of which the Count and his servants consumed vast quantities and insisted that she do so as well. That night they had drunk champagne, while she had gaped at the onion domes on St Basil’s Cathedral and the immense fortifications of the Kremlin. From that moment he had treated her with great kindness; he wanted the babe, although he had made it clear that it was a boy he required. And after Moscow the journey had become pleasant, because they had abandoned their horses and drifted down the Volga on rafts. Although by now the year was well advanced, they seemed to be outstripping winter, and moving steadily south to warmth.