In the half light, the village seemed grey. A few feet away on the right was a small dark dot on the ground. She inspected it. It was just a dog’s mess that had frozen to stone in the cold clear night. There was no wind, and only the pleasant smell of woodsmoke that emanated from the chimneyless huts. No one was about as she began to walk.
There was no particular reason why Yanka should have walked through the woods that dawn; except that, after a restless night, she was glad to go out into the cold open spaces away from the village for a while. She began to walk along the path through the trees.
She was seven years old: a quiet, rather self-possessed little girl, with hazel-flecked blue eyes and straw-coloured hair. Of the children in the village of Russka, she was one of the most fortunate: for her mother’s family were descended from the peasant Shchek, the keeper of the honey forest in the days of the boyar Ivan and the Grand Prince Monomakh. By the time of his death Shchek had acquired numerous beehives of his own and even now, generations later, in addition to the traditional distaff, salt box and butter press that came with every bride, Yanka’s mother had brought a handsome dowry, including several beehives. She was a gay, quick-witted woman, resembling her ancestor mainly in her thick dark hair and square build; and she loved to sing. Sometimes, it was true, Yanka had noticed some tension between her parents. She had even heard her mother speak words of scorn. But for the most part their household seemed happy.
The sun was about to rise. Its rays caught a single, small white cloud overhead, causing it to gleam. Yanka wandered on. She smelt the faint earthy scent of a fox that must have crossed the track. Turning, she saw it, watching her through the trees thirty paces away on the right. ‘Good morning, fox,’ she said quietly.
The fox slipped away across the snow, like a shadow dropping foot-prints as it passed.
It was time to turn back. Yet she did not. Something seemed to beckon her to the edge of the steppe. I will look at the sun rising over the steppe, she thought, before I go back to the village.
The settlement of Russka had become rather isolated in recent times. The fort was still there but poorly manned, for recently there had not even been a prince in Pereiaslav. The boyar’s family had long ago become strangers to the village. Ivanushka’s grandson, another Ivan, had married a Cuman girl, and their son, a strange, fair-haired fellow called Milei whose blue eyes were set in a rather high-boned Turkish face, had taken no interest in Russka. ‘The Turk’ the villagers called him; although by the standards of the Russian princes, some of whom were now seven-eighths Cuman, he was not particularly Turkish. Apart from this, the boyar’s family owned large estates in the north-east, beyond the River Oka. The boyar lived in the city of Murom. His steward came to inspect the village from time to time, and to take the profits from the honey. The family also kept up the little church, although it was sometimes left with only an ancient, half-blind priest to look after it.
During Yanka’s brief life, the village of Russka therefore was a place of benign torpor, its inhabitants gathering harvest and honey, cheating the absent boyar, sitting outside in the long summer months, and often singing in the summer evenings at the border of the southern steppe.
Except for the threat over the horizon.
Yanka did not know what to make of that. A huge raid from the steppe had taken place in the north the previous year. The Cumans, or whoever they were, had done great damage. And that autumn, the boyar’s steward had not appeared. Who knew what it meant? ‘But don’t worry,’ her father had told her. ‘You’ll be safe with me.’
When she came to the edge of the trees the sun had just cleared the horizon. Ahead, to the east, the white snows seemed to stretch for ever, as though the sun had come from some hidden declivity in their distant wastes. Now the great, golden sun was rising like an emperor in the blue sky of the east as she stared, transfixed, at its splendour.
The air was completely clear and silent. About a mile away, a little to the left, a small bump marked the place where there was an ancient kurgan. Far to the south, long layers of greyish clouds stretched along the horizon from steppe to forest, their edges gleaming gold.
Yanka stepped out from the trees and walked out on to the plain. Almost at once, its huge, empty silence seemed to envelop her. She took a deep breath of icy air and smiled. Now she was ready to go home.
Just as she was about to turn, however, her sharp eyes noticed a minute dot, far away on the horizon. She stared at it, shielding her eyes from the sun, not even sure if there was something there or not. It did not seem to be moving. Was it growing? She finally decided it was not. How strange, she thought, as she gazed. It must be a tree, casting a long shadow in the sunrise.
And then she turned to go home, while the sun, lord of the blue sky, took possession of the morning.
Mengu watched her.
He had ridden out from the camp at first light and before long had come to a low rise which gave him a good view. Across the open steppe, ten miles away, he could clearly see the line of trees and he had seen the little figure even as she emerged from the wood.
For while Yanka’s eyes were sharp, the eyes of the man of the steppe were far keener.
In the clarity of early morning, before dust or haze have risen, the men of the desert and prairie can make out a man at fifteen miles and more. Even at four miles, such warriors can spot the arm of a man hiding behind a rock.
So Mengu, like a falcon, watched the little girl as she ventured out on to the steppe and then went back.
Then he smiled. How easy it had been. The cities of the north – Riazan, Murom, Vladimir – had fallen helplessly before them. The Grand Duke and his army had been destroyed. It was only a pity that the wet spring weather had forced them to turn back before reaching Novgorod; but that great trading city could be dealt with later. These poor Russian cities, despite their high walls, never had a chance. To the siege engineers, used to dealing with the stupendous fortified cities of China, these western places seemed puny.
Now they had come again, in winter, to smash the south. And in this, too, they had shown their wisdom.
For the general view, that Russia is protected by her winter, is incorrect. The winter is a very good time to attack Russia. In spring and autumn, mud makes the land impassable. In summer, there are large rivers to cross. But in winter, the rivers are frozen solid and it is easy to travel if one is prepared for the cold and knows how to move over the snow. The Mongols were no strangers to harsh winters. They liked them.
Mengu continued to gaze thoughtfully at the distant treeline where the girl had vanished. The campaign had been satisfactory so far; his men had performed well; he had nothing to complain of. There was only one problem: he had not yet been able to attract the general’s attention.
His sister had done her best for him with Batu Khan, but the message she gave him was as bleak as it was simple. When the great man had heard about her brother and his hopes he had merely remarked: ‘Good. Let him distinguish himself.’
All he needed was a chance – even a skirmish would do, as long as it took place under the general’s eye. He nodded thoughtfully. An opportunity would come. But let it come soon.
Again he scanned the woods. If the girl had been wandering at the treeline, there must be a village nearby.
They would be there by noon.
Moments after Yanka awoke, her face was white with terror.
They were everywhere. And she had been deserted.
She stood, shaking convulsively, by the window. She could smell the sweating flanks of the horses, almost touch them as the horsemen in thick furs, with huge bows slung on their backs, went by, brushing against the eaves of the huts. Some of them carried burning torches.