Even as she wept, however, she was scanning the crowd, watching to see who reacted. A couple of druzhinniks started walking briskly around the crowd, heading for what? Some rendezvous. If only she could see more clearly at such a distance. Who was it? Which of the king's knights? She would know who the plotters were by seeing who began first to search for Ivan.
"Were you bedded?" asked an elderly peasant woman.
Katerina bowed her head. "We had the blessing of the priest. How could I guess the devil could reach us through that wall of glory?"
From the walk, Katerina recognized one of them. Dimitri. A part of her said, No, not Dimitri, not the hero, the man who should be king. Another part of her said, Of course Dimitri. Who else? If he was in the plot, then it was his plot. Even if he didn't begin it, once in he would lead it. Ivan's danger was worse than she had feared. For in the back of her mind, she had counted on Dimitri being on the king's side.
Unless by plotting to kill Ivan he was on the king's side. Or thought he was.
Katerina began crying harder, but pretending less. She reached out and drew the shutter closed. The moment the crowd could no longer see her, her tears stopped. "I have to get out of here now, with no one following me."
"Good luck," said Sergei. "Dressed like that, you can hide just about as easily as you can stuff a rainbow into a pot."
"Almost I wish I could wear your clothes."
"Men's clothing?"
"It wouldn't work," said Katerina. "There's only one priest in Taina, and there's no way I can pass for Father Lukas."
"So what will you do?"
"Ask you to turn your back, while I change into something less becoming."
Sergei complied, trying not to imagine what the rustling sounds he was hearing might mean, or what the sight of her might be at any given moment. Katerina was not and never could be for him; there was no point in thinking thoughts that would excite desires that could never be satisfied. It would only make his life taste more bitter, to dwell on the sweetness that could not be his.
"Thank you," she said. "We can go now."
Sergei turned and saw her in her simplest dress, the one she wore when she helped with the harvest. Every year she bound sheaves with the best of them, her fingers as deft as any woman's at tying them off, and Sergei had often seen this dress covered in straw and dust. No matter. She was as beautiful in this simple clothing as she ever was in the more royal finery.
She opened the door for him.
"But it's my place to open the latch for you, princess," he said.
"I'm on my way to help my lord escape from this land," she said. "What do I care about courtesy?"
Sergei followed her out the door. "Then the marriage," he said softly. "It's real, despite all?"
"I'll have no other," she said. "My word is given."
At that moment, they heard a tumult outside. Shouting. Much running.
"I think perhaps I heard someone shout your husband's name," said Sergei.
Katerina stopped, crossed herself. "Holy Mother, make me fleet of foot," she said. Then, hiking up her skirts, she scampered down the corridor, into the great room, and out the door.
Ivan thought everything was going so well. Father Lukas might be humorless and rigid about religion, but when it came to politics, he knew how to be flexible. Why was Ivan surprised? There was a reason why Christianity thrived in the barbarian kingdoms of Europe, and this was it: The missionary priests knew how to make themselves useful, how to put royalty into their debt. Katerina wanted to save the life of this preposterous husband she acquired through witchcraft? Very well, Father Lukas would do his part.
They headed westward through the village, toward the gap in the woods where Katerina had first shown him the village. A few children ran along, chattering to the priest, calling out to him. Many people waved a greeting. But one little girl, snot-lipped and covered with dirt, paid no attention to Father Lukas. She came right up to Ivan, tugged at his robe, tagged along beside him.
"What's wrong with your foot?" she demanded.
Ivan did not want to speak. He didn't want anybody hearing that his voice was not Sergei's. Ivan's accent wasn't bad—but it wasn't native, either, not in proto-Slavonic.
"I said, what's wrong with your foot!"
Father Lukas came to his rescue. "His foot has been twisted from birth."
"Sergei's foot is twisted, but this one's just pretending!" cried the little girl at top volume.
"That is Sergei. Now hush and go away."
"That's not Sergei," said the little girl. "Sergei always calls me dewdrop and warns the fairies not to switch me for a changeling."
Ivan cursed silently. There was no way he could have prepared himself for this.
"He did not speak to you because he has taken a vow of silence," said Father Lukas.
Ivan welcomed the lie. Everyone was probably going to hell, now—who was left who hadn't lied today?—but it was decent of Father Lukas to do it.
"He did not!" said the girl. She began running around, shouting at any villager who might listen. "The new man is wearing Sergei's clothes! The new man is wearing Sergei's clothes!"
People began paying attention. People weren't the problem, though. It was the knights of the druzhina they were trying to avoid. Ivan had not seen any along the way, though with his head in a hood and his face downcast, it's not as though he had much of a view.
Father Lukas quickened his pace. Ivan could hear adults now, asking questions. "Is it Katerina's husband? Is it the new man? What's he doing? Where's he going?" Some even called out to Father Lukas. "Who's that with you, Father Lukas?" In answer, Father Lukas walked even more quickly.
And then, abruptly, he stopped. Ivan bumped into him.
Father Lukas's voice was so soft that it took a moment for Ivan to realize he was speaking. "Now would be a good time to run."
"What?" asked Ivan.
Father Lukas's answer was much louder this time. "Cast off the hood, hitch up the skirts, and run, you fool!"
Ivan cast off the hood and saw Dimitri and two other druzhinniks jogging toward him, weapons in hand.
"It is the interloper!" said one of them.
"Running away!"
"Deserting King Matfei and Princess Katerina."
Ivan recognized this as an attempt to justify in advance the unfortunate necessity of killing the traitorous Ivan. He started to run for the woods, but his legs got caught up in the skirts and he fell on his face in the grass. He might have got right up, but Father Lukas was trying to help him by gripping his robe and pulling in the wrong direction. Ivan couldn't get purchase with his hands to push himself up, and Lukas hadn't the strength to stand him up by main strength.
Finally, with the pounding of the knights' feet almost upon them, Ivan simply raised his arms straight above his head and slipped out of the robe, the linen undergarment and all. Once again, he was as naked as the day he arrived there. Only this time he didn't give a damn about that. At least he was leathershod—he'd be able to run much better this time without every pebble or twig slicing at the bottoms of his feet.
"Look at the coward!" said one man.
"Father Lukas has plucked his feathers—now to get him on the spit for roasting!" cried Dimitri.
But their good cheer evaporated quickly when they realized that Ivan was twice as fast as any of them, laden as they were with weapons, and untrained for speed. He reached the woods long before they were even close. Good thing none of them has a bow, he thought.
An arrow twanged into the trunk of a tree ten feet from his head.
All right, so they had a bowman. Just not a good one.