 Still fresh in her memory, made sharp by the cold clime, was the recollection of that eve when a wild horse, long ago stolen from her dominion, returned home with a naked young man lashed to its back; a man half-frozen, starving and pale...a man who should not have survived such an ordeal...a man sent to her by Providence to become a willing and most grateful subject. Several loyal Kozaks, her krug, had untied the youth and transported him to a warm and inviting room in the palace; there tapestry-lined walls awaited, a roaring fire in the hearth, the softest eiderdown gracing a featherbed pallet, soul-restoring odors from the kitchen below and a retinue of servants to fulfill every caprice. She remembered how slowly the stranger regained his strength and his mind until one morning his full recovery was near complete. Having been informed by her spies that the invalid hailed from a fine family in Poland, she knew that he would courteously inquire of a caretaker as to whom his unknown benefactor might be. "Ah," smiled a valet of her house, momentarily placing a finger to rouged lips, "'tis not for me to say, monsieur, but rest assured that my mistress is a most renowned and valiant Lady, most certainly Marena made flesh." "Marena?" the puzzled visitor had inquired. "Of whom do you speak, for I know not your customs in this icy sphere." And then she had appeared, timing perfectly the entrace, a rustle of silk and the sound of heels the announcement of her unexpected arrival. In the eyes of the stunned men she had viewed a tall, costumed courtier, a woman dressed in bejeweled kaftan and sarafan, braided locks crowned with an imposing kokoshnik encrusted with gold. Daring not too gaze too long at such magnificence, the astounded guest had bowed his head in reverence, words failing but one: Marena. "No, cholop," came a disdainful laugh, "no. I am Michelka, Queen of the Don Kozaks." "Cholop? That is not my Christian name," the guest had replied. "No, the title given our most abject slaves," she had informed, before turning with a sweeping gesture and exiting the scene, pleased with the confusion created within the mind of the shut-in. With greater joy Michelka remained a mystery and did not return to the sick room for many a day, testing the resolve of him who might have begged a suit of clothes and been away, gone from her kingdom. A week passed, then another and when satisfied that one brief glimpse of her magnificence had inspired true devotion within the foreigner's heart, she summoned him to an audience, a meeting to be conducted at the stable of her royal stud, the equivalent of lesser kings' private chapels. The full skirt of Michelka's black satin ponyova was parted by sable trimming to reveal high heels of red serving flying-buttress duty to a pair of Kozak boots crafted by nimble fingers from luminously polished, midnight saddle leather, the silk crackers of enemy whips taken in battle gracing the sides of those meticulously constructed hides. A blouson of gold tissue embroidered with her badge, the wolf's head, commanded attention, as did the towering bearskin hat cocked jauntily to one side of her plaits. She sat upon a throne of gilded wood, holding in one gloved hand the Kozak scepter, a sturdy plet. Prince Ivan dared to step forward and was rewarded by a show of favour, a profferred tip of tassled splendour which he was quick to bend over and pray to with trembling lips. Michelka held out the long, braided knout, supporting the chin of the supplicant, lifting his face to her bemused visage. "They tell me, cholop, that in the past you have erred. I hearsay you offended a lady and for that indiscretion, King John Casimir ordered you secured naked to a wild Kozak mare and sent here, to Baturyn, to receive your due punishment." "No, sweet Marena, goddess of the winter blast, I have come to serve you, to be as a vassal to the Queens of the Kozaks." The stiff plet tapped none too gently at Ivan's cheek and he dropped to his knees, crying out from the pain of the lash. "Would you remain here or begone?" Michelka demanded. "We Kozaks are cruel, true, but just. Since that cur Casimir defiled one of my horses, returning her to me shall win you pardon, should that be your heart's desire, Prince Mazepa." The nobleman's forehead was pressed to her hem. "To live without sight of you, dear queen, most holy Michelka, is a fate worse than death or King Casimir's wrath." "Well spoken," came the decree as Michelka stood tall. "Prepare, then, to be harnessed, for my troika awaits. Men, drape him with the pretty, small sleigh bells, for the kolokol'chik strains are so sweet." Yes, Queen Michelka smiled, crossing the paved courtyard, lanky Borzoi at heel, the night that Mazepa had pulled her sled recklessly on the tundra had been a lovely night, indeed. And many other such nights still awaited the Kozak and her most prized steed. |
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