Darker Jewels (30 page)

“It is not my place to approve,” said Rothger more stiffly than he wanted to. “You are master.”

Rakoczy’s single crack of laughter masked his inner dejection. “And fine deference you show, my friend.” He motioned his implied rebuke away in a single gesture. “You are worried, and I do not make light of that. For what consolation it may be, I also worry.”

“And yet you remain here,” said Rothger.

Rakoczy touched the little ivory box. “What is there to go back to? War? Famine? In Russia or Europe, what does it matter?” He asked the question as if he were inquiring about the weather.

“But what is there here to remain for?” Rothger’s question was fast and quiet, his steady faded-blue eyes unflinching.

The answer did not come at once. “You may be right, and I am being foolish.” Rakoczy rubbed his brow.

“Not foolish,” said Rothger at once.

“Oh, there is no reason to spare me,” said Rakoczy. “I do not seek to spare myself.” His gesture included all the laboratory. “I am aware that my situation here is precarious, all the more so because those at Court seek my skills. Yet without this, I would be at the mercy of spies and Court machinations. As it is, the jewels buy me a measure of peace; the boyars are as Pyrrhonic as they are greedy, and they are reluctant to tamper with someone who might be to their advantage.”

“Father Pogner would gladly release you from your obligation,” Rothger observed.

“My obligation is to Istvan Bathory, not Father Pogner; if it were to Father Pogner I would have been cast off long since,”

Rakoczy reminded him. His manner changed, becoming remote. “How many times have I lost my native land to invaders? And how many times have I been taken from it.” He did not expect an answer and got none; he went to a tall, locked cabinet where all his books were stored. The light from the nearest oil lamp angled across his features. “Istvan Bathory has honored me in exile, and that is rare in kings, as we both have cause to know. For that alone, I shall discharge my duties here for as long as I am capable of it.”

Rothger had seen Rakoczy in this state perhaps a dozen times in the sixteen hundred years he had served him, and each time it had troubled him. “Surely King Istvan does not expect you to remain here in the face of danger.”

At that Rakoczy smiled, a sardonic glint in his eyes. “Of course he does, and with good reason. He requires someone at this Court who has nothing to lose but the King’s good-will. That is why he did not leave this embassy entirely to priests.” He leaned on the cabinet, his arms folded. “But you’re right; precautions are in order. I suppose it would be best to alert the servants; they will have to be told that Yuri has left and is not to be admitted again without my permission. That will lead to just the sort of speculation we want to avoid, but there is no other course open to us.”

“And your wife?” asked Rothger, his tone made noticeable by its neutrality.

“Xenya.” Rakoczy’s eyes seemed to be looking a great distance. “I’ll try to persuade her to ... to trust me.” It was an effort to say it so directly.

“Should she be guarded?” Rothger anticipated the answer, adding, “And which of the servants do we assign to protect her?”

“That is a perplexing question, isn’t it.” Rakoczy’s solemn demeanor did not match his light tone. “And I have no answer to give you. Her greatest risk comes from her family, and I cannot stop them from seeing her without causing her distress. It may be necessary to find new servants, and that increases the chance of bringing new spies into the household.” He moved away from the cabinet. “I dislike being coerced."

“You could confine her to the house as most wives are confined, in the terem. No one would think it strange if you do this. It is what you are expected to do,” said Rothger, but without much confidence that Rakoczy would order it.

“I could; and hire eunuchs to watch her,” he allowed as he paced down the room, the heels of his boots clicking smartly on the bare wood. “And that would destroy what little faith she has in me.”

“It might become necessary,” Rothger said.

“Yes,” said Rakoczy.

“The Shuiskys and the Nagoys are powerful rivals,” Rothger persisted.

“Yes,” said Rakoczy.

“Father Pogner is determined to discredit you.”

“Yes,” said Rakoczy. “He is.”

In exasperation Rothger turned on his heel and left Rakoczy alone in his laboratory.

Text of a letter to Istvan Bathory, King of Poland, from his cousin Tibor Bathory, written in Hungarian.

To my Heaven-favored cousin who reigns as King in Poland, my greetings from the beleaguered city of Trieste.

It is with reluctance that I take pen in hand to write to you, for certainly what I have to impart will cause you concern. Much as I have hoped that another means to end this shame would manifest itself, I have not perceived it in spite of many long hours of prayers for guidance. Nevertheless, you must be informed of these occurrences in order for some action to be taken to correct what has become a very difficult situation within our family. It is essential that you be warned of certain damnable events before word reaches you through the offices of those seeking to discredit the name Bathory.

I fear I must inform you that a number of very troubling reports have been provided me that suggest that my half-sister, your cousin, Erzebet Bathory, has been seduced by a servant of the Devil himself, a woman who is one of her housekeepers. This woman practices vile witchcraft and has drawn Erzebet herself into the despicable practices and godless rites of those who turn their back on the Salvation through Christ Jesus. Erzebet has made herself an acolyte of this malignant creature and claims to have abandoned Christian worship in favor of making hideous offerings to the gods of her instructress.

If only Erzebet had children, for they would keep her thoughts away from such practices. How often we are warned that idleness in women leads to sin. With children to claim her attention she would bend her thoughts to their welfare and learning, filling her hours with the pious sacrifices of motherhood. But it is nine years now since she and Nadasdy married, and they have nothing to show for their union. It is said by uncharitable people that there exists an antipathy between husband and wife. Nadasdy spends much of his time away from Castle Bathoty, often marching with the army against the Turk, but more frequentfy seeking out entertainment of other sorts in Vienna and other cities known to cater to secret vices. Although many hold him in high esteem, others speak of him less favorably, comparing his actions to those of a wayward and feckless youth.

You may see how sin had led to sin. The absence of her husband has left Erzebet with time to brood and nothing but folly to occupy her hours. There is little for her to do; Castle Bathory does not boast much society, and Nadasdy has not encouraged Erzebet to surround herself with her own friends. Thus has she fallen prey to the reprehensible housekeeper, striving to fill her empty days and isolated life with the promise of power in the world, which is the lure of Satan.

I must ask you, Majesty, to consider the damage that may well be done to the honor of the House of Bathory if the activities of Erzebet go unchecked. It will do you, nor your brother, any credit to have it known that your cousin is the willing slave of the Devil and studies spells whereby she may gain ascendancy over those around her. It is not possible that you could endorse her dedication, and therefore you must oppose it; for otherwise suspicion may well spread to you, and in these times no man may consider himself immune to the taint of diabolism.

Let your justice be swift and sure, Royal cousin. Let it strike out the heart of the evil and cleanse the name Bathory of all implication of sin. You have the authority to require her to confess. If you cannot act, you must relinquish the governing of Erzebet to the Church. Do not abandon her to the temptations she has pursued. Iwillpray for God to give you the wisdom and courage to turn Erzebet from her disastrous path.

In the sure and certain hope of the exoneration of the honor of Bathory, I sign myself with all sincere dedication,

Your cousin, Tibor Bathory

On the 29th day of May, in the Year of Grace 1584.

6

After blessing the ikons at the front door of Rakoczy’s house, Anastasia Sergeivich Shuisky asked to see his “so-sweet-cousin Xenya.” His cupid’s-bow mouth, framed by his wheat-blond beard, lent the phrase a sensuality that Rakoczy recognized with misgiving. “You will permit me to have a word with her in privacy, won’t you?”

“Certainly,” said Rakoczy after a moment as he rid himself of disturbing memories: Cornelius Justus Silius watching Olivia with the lovers he sent to her, Pentecoste at her spinning, the inextinguishable hunger in Estasia’s eyes. He clapped his hands twice and said to the servant who answered the summons, “Please inform my wife that her cousin has arrived.”

The servant reverenced both men and left the reception hall.

“You no longer have a doorman,” Anastasi observed, brows elevated.

Rakoczy shrugged. “Yuri is more suited to work for Father Pogner and the embassy; I am at their service.” His black dolman was open at the collar, revealing the red-embroidered Italian camisa beneath. “In time I will find someone to replace Yuri.”

It was a warm, close afternoon, oppressive and thunderish. In the market squares throughout Moscovy vendors were sluggish and buyers surly; animals drooped in harness; the white doves that usually littered the sky kept to their perches. The moat around the Kremlin stank and spread its miasmic presence over half the city.

“Graciously said,” Anastasi told him, and looked around the

room, perusing the contents and at last nodding to show his approval. “You have made this very nice, especially for a foreigner.”

“Thank you,” said Rakoczy, and indicated the withdrawing room behind the reception hall. “Let me offer you the use of this chamber. And I will ask my cooks to prepare something for you, if that would please you.”

Anastasi rubbed his hands together. “I admit that fancy breads would go well just now: fancy breads and a litde fruit, and something substantial to drink. Yes, that would be the best fare in prickly weather like this. You’re a considerate fellow, Rakoczy, and have taken to our ways fairly well: better, certainly, than your Polish priests.” He took a turn about the reception hall, his bright eyes revealing his interest in the heavy draperies from England. He chose to comment only on things Russian. “The lacquer-work on that chest is very striking; the battle against the German Crusaders, isn’t it? A strange topic for you, I would have thought, you being foreign. That lantern is from Ratcatcher Street, or I do not know good Moscovy brass. The carving on the beams is very good. You must have found excellent workmen to do it for you.”

“I trust I have,” said Rakoczy, and turned as Xenya appeared at the top of the stairs.

Xenya was flushed from the heat; without cosmetics she looked very young, an impression made more forceful by her long, bronze braids falling down her back without ribbons or binding. Her camisa was sheer linen—a gift from Rakoczy—and she wore her lightest sarafan. She watched Anastasi intently, then lowered her head to greet him. “May God show you mercy and favor, Anastasi Sergeivich.”

“And to you, Xenya Evgeneivna.” He waited until she had reached the bottom of the stairs.

“I trust you are well,” said Xenya nervously; she spoke as if she barely knew Anastasi and distrusted his reason for his visit.

“God is very good,” said Anastasi, and in a sweeping motion took in her surroundings. “Your prayers have been heard at last, have they not? To have achieved this at your age is remarkable. Not many women who wait as long as you did to marry are so rewarded for their patience, but I see He has favored you. How fortunate that after disaster there is redemption.”

Rakoczy disliked the manner and tone Anastasi took with Xenya, but he made no outward show of it and spoke pleasantly enough. “Marriage is hardly redemption, Anastasi Sergeivich.”

“Well,” said Anastasi, accepting the mild reprimand with an
eng
a
ging
grin, preparing to press his advantage, “perhaps it is salvation, at least. Don’t you think so, little cousin?” He enjoyed his own witticism as much as he liked placing Rakoczy at a disadvantage.

Xenya was not able to join in her cousin’s laughter but she did manage to smile. “Certainly it may be,” she said, looking once toward Rakoczy.

As if he were not aware of the jibes aimed at him, Rakoczy chuckled once as he opened the door to the withdrawing room a bit wider. “If you will excuse me, I will order your refreshments.”

“Of course, of course,” said Anastasi with a blithe wave. He paid no more attention to Rakoczy but turned his full attention to Xenya as he guided her into the withdrawing room.

It was a pleasant chamber, with four cushioned chairs around a low shelved table, Italian hangings on the walls, and a shocking painting hung over a rack of unstrung hunting bows, an Italian painting in the style of the last century, of a naked, fairhaired woman out-flung at the feet of a massive man in draped golden clothes whose head was wreathed in a crown of lightning; Jupiter and Semele represented by the artist’s two favorite models: a larger-than-life Giuliano de’Medici and Simonetta Vespucci.

Xenya waited until Anastasi had chosen one of the chairs before she asked his permission to be seated herself. She folded her hands and waited for Anastasi to speak, fighting down her certainty that she had committed some great error.

“I am disappointed, Xenya,” Anastasi announced, losing no time in pleasantries with her.

She swallowed against the fear that threatened to stifle her voice. “What have I done now?” It took all her will not to beg his forgiveness.

“It is two months since you have sent me any word regarding your husband. That is a long time for a new bride to be silent, and surely you have learned more about him. You have been lax. You have not attended to your duty.” He loomed toward her, his elbows braced on the arms of the chair, his head lowered like an angry bear. “You were charged with discovering the lull extent of the man’s fortune, and you have yet to inform me of anything but his claim—which I already know—that he makes his jewels himself. He must take us all for credulous fools!”