A maidservant answered Gleb’s knock. The goodwife appeared. Gleb’s followers brought in Svoboda’s baggage, and he paid the woman. They went to the room that would be hers. Cramped, it held a narrow bed, stool, pot, basin, water jug. Above the bed hung a picture, a man with a halo, letters around him to spell out a name that the wife said was St. Yuri. “He slew a dragon and saved a maiden,” she explained. “A fine guardian for you, my dear. You have come to be married, I believe?” The sharp, hasty accent forced Svoboda to listen closely.
“So we trust,” Gleb replied. “Arranging the betrothal will take days, you understand, Olga Borisovna, and then there will be the wedding preparations. Now this lady is tired after a long, hard journey.”
“Of course, Gleb Ilyev. What else? Hungry too, I’m sure. I will go see that the soup is hot. Come to the kitchen when you are ready, both of you.”
“I must be straightway off, myself,” he said. “You know how a trader has to watch and pounce at this season, like a sparrowhawk, if he would strike any bargains worth half his trouble.”
The woman bustled off. So did his men, at a gesture from him. For a moment he and Svoboda were alone.
Light was dim; this room had only a small window covered by membrane. Svoboda searched Gleb’s face as best she could, where he stood in the doorway. “Will you meet Igor Olegev today?” she asked low.
“I doubt that,” he sighed. “He is an important man, after all, his voice strong in the folkmoot, and—and very busy while the fleet is here, not just as a chandler but—well, when you deal with men of many nations, it becomes politics and schemes and—“ He was not wont to speak thus awkwardly. “I’ll leave word, and hope he can receive me tomorrow. Then we’ll set a time for you to meet with him, and—and I’ll pray for a good outcome.”
“You said that was sure.”
“No, I said I think it likely. He is interested. And I know him and his situation well. But how could I make you any outright promise?”
She sighed in. her turn. “True. At worst, you said, you can find somebody less well off.”
He stared down at the rushes on the floor. “That … need not happen either. We are friends of old, you and I. Right? I could—look after you—better than, than you have thus far let me do.”
“You have been more than kind to me,” she said gently. “Your wife is a lucky woman.”
“I had better go,” he mumbled. “Get my whole party together, everyone quartered, wares stored, and then— Tomorrow, whenever I can, I’ll stop here and give you the news. Until then, God be with you, Svoboda Volodarovna.” He turned and hurried off.
She stood a while, her thoughts atumble, before she found her way to the kitchen. Olga gave her a bowl of rich beef broth, crowded with leeks and carrots, black bread and ample butter on the side. She settled herself on the bench across the table and chattered away. “Gleb Ilyev has told me so much about you—”
With a wariness that the years had taught her, Svoboda steered the talk. Just how much had the man said? It was a relief to learn he had been as shrewd as usual. He had described a widow with no dependent children alive and no prospect of remarriage in her distant, rude neighborhood. Out of charity, and in hope of earning credit in Heaven, Gleb had suggested her to the chandler Igor Olegev of Kiyiv, himself lately left bereaved among several youngsters. The prospect appeared good; a woodlander could learn city ways if she was clever, and this woman had other desirable qualities as well. Therefore Gleb helped Svoboda convert her inheritance to cash, a dowry, and took her along on his next trip.
“Ah, poor darling, poor little one.” Olga dabbed at tears. “No child of yours above the earth, and no man to wed one so young and beautiful? I cannot understand that.”
Svoboda shrugged. “There was ill feeling. Please, spare me talking about it.”