The Golden Horde by Peter Morwood Read Free Book Online Page B

a short distance away, with an air of enforced idleness that sat uncomfortably on their mailed shoulders as they eyed the brazier hauled up here for their liege lords. But since those same lords had been ignoring it, none wanted to be the first to weaken and move nearer the heat.
    Mar’ya Morevna issued rapid orders, speaking briskly enough that ordering others to action seemed enough to keep her warm. “Detach a troop of light horse. Send them beyond the skirmish-line where we last saw the Tatars – they’ll know to proceed with caution from that point onwards, at least they’d better. When they make any contact at all, they’re to break off and get back here. They’re not to engage, on pain of my extreme displeasure.”
    “And on pain of pain,” said Ivan, while the small, hard smile that was only a stretching of his lips leached any humour from the words. “Meanwhile pull every fourth man out of the line and back to the wagons to get enough hot soup, bread and wine for himself and the other three.” He looked at Fedorov and raised his eyebrows a fraction. “All those things are ready, aren’t they?”
    “Yes, Majesty,” said Captain Fedorov. “The soup’s in kettles on the braziers, the rest is with the baggage train.”
    “Good. Do it. If there’s still no sign of the Tatars after they’ve eaten, bring them back to the braziers by squads, at whatever interval seems good to you and your sergeants. We won’t weaken the formations any more by keeping the men warm than by letting them drop at their posts.”
    “By your command. Majesty, Highness.” Fedorov saluted and jogged away again in a rattle of armour and a spatter of snow.
    “Smartly done, Vanya,” said Mar’ya Morevna. “You may be only a Tsar, but you’ve got the potential to be a good officer.” She grinned briefly. “I may well make one of you yet. Now, what are you going to eat?”
    Ivan gave her another of those humourless smiles, but this time it simply made him look wretched. “Not until my insides stop fluttering. This is worse than waiting for the Teutonic Knights.” He unhitched his own helmet and dropped it with a metallic crunch into the snow, then pulled up his hood and stared at Mar’ya Morevna from the refuge of its shadows. “How long did it take before you got used to the waiting? How many battles?”
    “Not enough. I’m still not used to it. Just better than you at hiding it.” She peeled off one glove and touched his face, frowned, shivered, and made haste to pull the big fur-lined glove back on again. “The charm is wearing thin. You’re beginning to get cold. Take my advice and have some hot soup at least.”
    Ivan’s mouth quirked in distaste. “There’s no guarantee it would stay down,” he said. “I’ll take my own advice and have some hot wine instead.”
    “I had a feeling you might say that.” There was disapproval in her voice. “Don’t you think that something other than wine – or ale, or mead, or vodka – might make a pleasant change?”
    “Not now.” Whether Ivan was referring to her suggestion or a plea he was hearing more and more frequently, the answer was the same. “After the battle. But not now.”
    He watched her sigh and turn away, relieved she hadn’t persisted. What if he drank a little too much, or a little too often? The Great Khan Ogotai was well known for enjoying a cup or three, and Prince Vladimir of Kiev had said it for all Russians three hundred years ago, when rejecting the Moslem religion because of its strictures on wine. ‘ Drinking ,’ he had said, ‘ is the joy of the Rus .’ Joy maybe, and sometimes a necessary buffer against the realities of life, but Ivan knew better than to quote the old Prince’s words to Mar’ya Morevna.
    Then all thought of wine or arguments concerning it fled from his mind as a badly-blown trumpet blared from the distant horizon. Ivan swung about and shaded his eyes to see better. The troop of cavalry newly dispatched by Captain