CHAPTER 23:
PLANK
After verifying that Zuhzyn was dead as well, Illarion sent the remaining Druzhina to fetch the rest of the honor guard and to give the order for the army to occupy Pskov. Only then did he and Nika proceed to light the candles in the church. They were joined by more Druzhina, who wanted to know what had happened; Nika only shook her head and pointed to the bodies and then to the candles.
Illarion worked slowly; the church was large and there were many candles. His rage, which had been a pulsating red veil draped over his eyes, slowly faded. He no longer felt as if he were standing with his feet in a fire; now he seemed to be standing on the edge of a vast field that had been burned black. There was soot on his boots and his cloak. The sky was filled with a black haze, and there were no stars in the sky. Each candle was a pinpoint of light, a tiny spark that gave him hope. When he lit the last candle and saw that there were still shadows in the church, he called out for more. Find every living soul in the city, he told his men, and bring them and a stub of wax or tallow to the church.
He was tired of the darkness.
The church filled, both with bodies and with light. Word of what had occurred passed quickly among those gathered, and the bodies of the assassins disappeared. Belun and Zuhzyn were brought forward and laid out before the altar, their bodies composed in peaceful repose. A pair of candles was set on the stone floor beside their heads, giving the impression they were crowned with shining halos.
The angry muttering of the army was magnified in the church, and soon everyone was talking loudly in order to be heard by their neighbor. Illarion’s head throbbed, and his mouth was dry; he wished he could send someone to fetch a flagon of wine or mead, but this was not the time for celebration. He could make out snatches of the arguments that were raging around him.
A priest of the church had been located, and he continued to profess utter innocence in the matter of the assassins in the church. Illarion was inclined to believe the man’s protestations. If Kristaps had ordered his men to slay the city’s populace indiscriminately, priests would not have been excluded. In fact, Illarion was certain that priests would have been singled out as men to be put to the sword during the pillaging of Pskov. That this man had survived at all suggested he had been in hiding for some time. This was probably the first time the priest had been in his church in weeks. Moreover, why would Kristaps have left this priest alive if the man had known of the plot to assassinate the Kynaz?
The Druzhina were angry; most of them were upset at him for visiting the church without a full escort, though Illarion knew such anger was misplaced. They had followed his order, and he had told them to care for the city while he had gone to pray. But they were afraid that he would blame them, though he did not know why he should. He had not been killed.
He stared at the candle in his hand, and when he placed it on the sconce, he felt himself on the verge of the black field again. The soot covered his trousers and the whole of his cloak was covered with it. He looked up and saw stars.
“That’s the last one,” Nika said. “They’re all lit.”
He nodded slowly and lowered his head. He turned to face the overflowing church. Druzhina and city folk were arguing noisily, and the only beings in the entire church who were quiet and calm were the two dead men lying on the floor beside the altar and a cloaked and hooded man who was nearly before them, his hands clasped in prayer. Illarion’s discarded helmet sat on the floor before the figure’s knees.
“People of Rus,” Illarion called out, his voice hoarse. He allowed himself to wish for mead one last time before he worked up enough spit to ease the dryness in his throat. “People of Rus,” he tried again. “Why are we arguing over whether this man knew if our enemy had plotted against us? We know our enemy wants us dead. We know our enemy seeks to break our spirits in any way that he can.”
He did not have all of their attention yet, but he could see it happening. Arguments were falling away and the gathered people were turning their faces toward him. So many hungry eyes and sallow cheeks! He was not one for grandiose speeches; that was Alexander’s duty. But he was here as the stand-in for the Kynaz. If the prince would have spoken to these people, so, too, would he.
“This man is not our enemy,” Illarion said, indicating the cowing priest. “How many of you had children baptized by this man? How many of you received a blessing from him, thinking that it was a gift from God? He has shown himself to be afraid, and I dare any man or woman in this room to admit that they have never felt fear. How he dealt with that fear is between him and God. It is not our place to punish him for being afraid. It is our responsibility to look into our own hearts and ask how we failed him.”
There was some grumbling from the Druzhina with that last sentence, and several men glared at him as if he were speaking directly to them. Illarion took care to not meet any of their gazes; instead, he let his gaze roam toward the high ceiling of the church where a few shadows stubbornly remained.
He thought of his last meeting in the prince’s tent, shortly before he donned the armor of the Kynaz and rode for Pskov. He thought of Alexander’s finger, tapping the map. Dorpat.
“Pskov has suffered enough,” he said. “I will not punish a city that has seen its people defiled and burned. I will not harm a people who have given their lives and lost their homes for me. I will not allow fear to rule the lives of those under my protection. I refuse to be cowed. I refuse to lie down and let my enemy trample me into the cold ground of Rus!”
At some point in that recitation, he had lost track of pretending to be the Kynaz. The words rising up from the anger in his belly were his and his alone. He raised his hands so that they could see the dark stains on his sleeves and arms. “I have blood on my hands,” he shouted. “We all have blood on our hands, and it has been the blood of our families. No more, I say. If there is blood to be spilled, let it be the blood of our enemies.”
The Druzhina liked that idea, and they cheered and shouted in agreement. The common folk joined in as well, though they were less enthused than the armored warriors. Illarion felt Nika at his side. She stood stiffly at attention, her face betraying no emotion, but he could see a glitter in her eyes that said she shared the sentiment echoing in the church.
“Our enemy sought to enrage the people of Rus by defiling this village. He wanted us here while he roamed free—out there in the wilderness, burning and defiling other cities. He wanted us to always be behind him, tripping over the dead and staggering through the ruins of his passage. He thinks our fear will grow so great that we will fall to our knees and beg him to stop. Stop burning Rus. Stop slaying our children.” Illarion took a deep breath before he continued. “Is that all we are? Beggars too frightened to take up arms and protect ourselves?”
The church shook with the resounding shout that came from the throats of those assembled.
“Careful,” Nika whispered to him in the wake of the roaring refutation of the crowd. “You are supposed to be the prince. Do not promise them something he would not give.”
He offered her a sad smile, knowing better than she what the prince wanted him to do, who the prince wanted him to be.
“I came to you today in the guise of your prince,” he said more loudly. “I came to you wearing the mask and colors of the Kynaz because that is who our enemy expected Novgorod would send to liberate Pskov. But Pskov did not need liberation. Pskov needed to be reminded of who it is.” He swept his hair, some of it matted with blood, back from his missing ear. “I am Illarion Illarionovich, one-time son of Volodymyr-Volynskyi. I fought the Mongols when they came, and I failed to save my city. My family and I were put to death beneath the planks. When the black bone Mongols came to take their trophies from the corpses, the touch of their knives brought me back. They took my ear, but I took their lives!”
He held up his hands to quell the shouting and stomping of many feet that followed, and when the crowd fell silent, he continued.
“I am Plank. Wood hewn from the forests of Rus. Wood used to shelter the people of Rus. Wood stained with the blood of Rus. I am Illarion Illarionovich; I am Plank; I am Rus. Just as each of you are Rus, and this land is ours. It has always been ours and will always be ours. The Mongols, who numbered in the tens of thousands more than these invaders from the south and north, could not destroy us. Why do we fear them? Why do we suffer their presence in our fields and forests?”
It was a rhetoric question, but Illarion let it hang for a few moments and the crowd broke out into a hundred different voices, all sharing the same enthusiasm, the same desire to be Rus.
“If they want to come to our lands and burn our villages and slay our children, then I say we show them the same courtesy,” Illarion cried. “I say we don’t bother chasing this reaver as he wanders across our lands. I say we go to his home. Let us trample his fine tapestries and drink his wine. Let us piss in his fireplace so that it sends up a foul smoke. Let us burn his house and salt his fields. Let us eradicate any sign that he ever existed!”
Pandemonium erupted in the church at his words, and the great weight that had been pressing down on his back and neck was lifted by their raucous glee and bloodlust. He stood, eyes closed, and listened to their voices, letting the noise batter him.
He was brought out of his reverie by a touch on his arm. The hooded man who had been kneeling beside the bodies was standing next to him, offering him the Kynaz’s helmet. The man leaned close, speaking into his left ear. “You will need this.”
Illarion started, recognizing the voice, and he peered into the shadows of the hood.
Alexander Nevsky put a finger to his lips. “I was never here,” the prince said.
Dumbfounded, Illarion took the offered helmet and the cloaked figure of the prince stepped back into the rank of the Druzhina. Illarion turned to Nika, intending to say something to her, but the Shield-Maiden was staring into the crowd. When Illarion looked, he caught sight of the hooded figure.
When the figure pulled its cloak tighter about its frame, he saw the hands were withered and bony, like those of an old woman.
“Plank! Plank! Plank!” the crowd chanted, finding a single word to convey all of their emotions.
He glanced at Nika to see if she had seen the same apparition as he had, but she was staring at him. Her eyes were wide, and he couldn’t decide if the root of her expression was fear or wonder.