FOREVER IN YOUR EMBRACE

CHAPTER 1

Russia, somewhere east of Moscow

August 8, 1620

THE LOWERING SUN SHIMMERED THROUGH THE DUSTY haze that loomed in languid stillness above the treetops, suffusing the tiny particles of sand with vibrant shades of crimson until the very air seemed aflame. It was an ominous portent, for the reddish aura gave no promise of rain or respite to a parched and thirsty land. The excessive heat summer and lengthy drought hand scorched the plains and barren steppes, wilting the endless sea of grass down to its densely matted roots, but here in the mixed wooden region of Russia, bordered on the north and east by the Volga River and on the South by the Oka, the thick forest appeared relatively unscathed by the lack of rain, though the company of travelers who sped through the vast wilderness still suffered the same.

In her full score years of life, the countess Synnovea Zenkovna had seen a wide variety of faces her homeland could present. They were as unique as the changing seasons. The long, brutal winters were a test of endurance for even the heartiest, but with the advent of spring, the thawing ice and snow could create deceptively treacherous bogs, which in times past had proven formidable enough to dissuade hordes of marauding Tatars and other invading armies. Summer was a temperamental vixen.

Warn, lulling breezes and the gentle patter of rain could placate the soul, but when the season was unmercifully imbued with dry, scorching temperatures, it served vengeance on those foolish enough to travel beneath its broiling sun, a fact which had not been overlooked by the Countess Synnovea prior to her departure from home. She was presently and unequivocally convinced that the greatest hazard to herself and her small entourage of attendants was the voluminous clouds of choking dust stirred aloft by the whirling wheels of her huge, black coach and the thudding hooves of the horses, making it difficult, if not totally impossible , for any of them to savor a fresh breath air. From every aspect, the conditions were intolerable for a lengthy trek through Russia, especially one which had been embarked upon with equal amounts of urgency and reluctance.

If not for Tsar Mikhail Feodorovich Romanov urging her to come to Moscow ere the week was out and full dozen of his mounted guards send under the direction of captain Nikolia Nekrasov to serve as her escort, Synnovea would never have even considered venturing upon such an arduous journey until the heat had adequately diminished. Indeed, had some less exalted personage given the command, she would have begged leave to remain at home in Nizhniy Novgorod to properly mourn the death of her father.

Synnovea stifled a moan of despair ere it passed her lips, for she knew full well that it was a waste of energies for a mere countless to belabour her lack of options when the Tsar of all the Russia had given a command. To be told that upon he arrival she would become the ward of his cousin, the Princess Anna Taraslovna, had brought the brumes of gloom upon her already grieving spirit, and she had been unable to muster anything more than a dismayed acquiescence to his summons. Immediate compliance was the only prudent choice for any proper subject. She was, after all, the late Count Aleksandr Zenkov's daughter and now, much to her chagrin, the recipient of His Imperial Highness's concern.

The Tsar had not elaborated on his purpose for assigning her a guardian, and his rationale was not had been heaped upon her sire in recent years, his performance as an outstanding emissary might have warranted this attention from the tsar, but even with the both her parents now dead, Synnovea fount it difficult to think of herself as a helpless waif or even a young woman in need of protection, for she had passed an age when most maidens marry.

Neither a youngling nor a pauper, yet treated like one, Synnovea mused ruefully, then cringed inwardly as she was reminded of more viable cause for Tsar Mikhail's dictate. Her elongated state of spinsterhood had perhaps contributed greatly to his decision, especially if she thought the matter had somehow been neglected by her father, who had nourished the hope that she would someday discover a love the likes of which he had shared with her mother, Eleanora. Though he had refrained from pressuring her into arrangement of marriage and seemingly had dragged his feet while procuring a s spouse for her, Aleksandr Zenkov had seen to her welfare quite well otherwise securing lands and wealth in her name, while gaining assurances from the tsar that upon his death nothing would be stripped from her. He had seen her tutored with as much care as any nobleman might require for his son and, after the death of her mother some five years back, had enlisted he assistance in the realm of diplomatic affairs and foreign dignitaries, which ultimately had involved her in his extensive travels abroad. Having had an English mother, Synnovea could speak that language as fluently as she could Russian, and with a good grasp of French as well, she had been able to pen letters to officials in all three. Count Zenkov had trusted her with sole responsibility of that task.

Resting an arm on the padded sash of the small side window, Synnovea clasped a dampened handkerchief to her brow as she sought to suppress a sudden dizziness and a threatening nausea. The conveyance had become a writhing instruments of torture, unyielding in its wild gyrations as the wheel rumbled and jounced over the deeply rutted road. To some degree, the tinkling and jangling of the horses' necklets and harness bells had mellowed the din of the drumming hooves. Nevertheless, a dull throbbing ache had settled insidiously in her temples, prompting her to squeeze her eyes tightly shut against the painfully bright rays of the lowering sun until the coach passed into the mottled shade provided by a stand of tall trees. Even when she dared to open her eyes again, Synnovea saw everything through a spotted red haze that came close to matching the rugby-red interior.