Darker Jewels (38 page)

Father Kovnovski was truly shocked. “In this Court, what noble is so bold as that? Surely there are those who know what he has done—”

“But he does it to their advantage as well as his own,” said Anastasi smoothly. He recognized the avidity in Father Pogner’s eyes for what it was, and continued, catering to the ruthlessness of the Polish priest. “If there are those of lesser rank who see Vasilli Andreivich’s treachery, they say nothing, fearing his influence and power. Doubtless I, too, should remain silent, but when my honor is compromised—”

“Yes. Yes,” said Father Pogner passionately. “It is more than any man should have to bear.”

“So you
do
understand,” said Anastasi as if they were brothers in misfortune. “Then you will share my anxiety for Czar Feodor.” “We pray for him daily,” said Father Kovnovski.

“As we pray for the salvation of Russia,” said Father Pogner, meeting Anastasi’s eyes directly.

Anastasi achieved an expression of great candor. “Such are my prayers also, good Poles, although I pray in Russian, not Latin. I am as troubled by the rule of Jerusalem as I am by the rule of Romanov and Godunov. Why must we accept the judgment of the Orthodox Church in Jerusalem in the governing of the Church in Russia? Why must the Czar accept the Metropolitan appointed by the Patriarch and not have his own priests advanced?”

“We of the Catholic Church accept the rule of the Pope,” said Father Pogner at his most depressive.

“But the Pope has Cardinals around him, to advise him and advance men worthy of it, does he not? And the Cardinals themselves are not bound to Rome, but to their own countries and courts, isn’t that so? The Pope has able lieutenants and captains to minister to him and do his bidding. The Patriarch in Jerusalem has no such advisers and yet demands that we bend to his will.” He lifted one hand to indicate the cutting wind. “Good Poles, let me invite you to my house, where it is warm and we might speak more together more . . . openly. Will you do me the honor of calling on me? It would be a great honor to open my door to you, and to have the benefit of your understanding. In these chaotic times I am sure we share many of the same goals.”

Father Pogner cleared his throat and spat. “We have been told that it is not wise to visit the houses of Russians.”

“And who said that? Was it Godunov? Nagoy? Romanov? Kurbsky? Skuratov? Which one of the men who are clambering to greater power gave you such a warning?” Anastasi made a gesture that showed disregard for such advice. “They have imposed no such restrictions on your fellow-emissary, Rakoczy. I say that we can serve our rulers and our countries better if we work together than if we struggle alone.” He reckoned the mention of Rakoczy’s name would spur Father Pogner to accept his offer.

“You may be able to . . .” Father Pogner examined Anastasi through narrowed eyes. “There is no harm in conversation, I wager,” he said with forced bonhomie. “Who knows? Perhaps we will discover something useful to both of us.” His face was closed, revealing nothing, but his eyes were alight with eagerness. “You are most generous, Duke. We will certainly call on you.”

“Will you come tomorrow?” Anastasi asked at his most solicitous, his cupid’s-bow mouth curling into a charming smile. “I will tell my servants to prepare fancy breads for you, and roast kid.”

Father Kovnovski, who was feeling nervous, said, “You offer us more than we deserve, Duke Shuisky.”

“Nonsense,” Father Pogner corrected him. “If this is what is appropriate for a Duke to serve, we will thank him for it humbly and be grateful to God for it for answering our prayers at last.” He looked squarely at Anastasi in optimistic greed. “After so many months, it is most satisfactory to be asked to visit at someplace other than a palace in the Kremlin. You are restoring my hope that we might yet fulfill our mission. We will certainly be there at the hour you appoint.”

“After mid-day Mass,” said Anastasi at once, who would have preferred having the two Jesuits follow him home at once. “I will send a servant to you, with a wagon to carry you.” Anastasi himself would find such blatant favor-mongering offensive but he could see that the Jesuits did not recognize this for what it was. “My servants will be at your disposal.” He paused. “Oh. There is one thing. We cannot have musicians entertain you; the household is still in mourning for my cousin, Galina Alexan- drevna, who died a month ago.”

Both Father Pogner and Father Kovnovski crossed themselves. “God give her rest and keep her,” said the younger priest.

Father Pogner glowered. “Is it right for us to visit at such a time?”

Anastasi gestured his unconcern. “She was my cousin, not my wife or my sister, or my daughter, she was a widow whose only daughter is married ... to your Count Saint-Germain, the Transylvanian Rakoczy.”

“That charlatan!” hissed Father Pogner. “May devils consume his entrails.”

This response delighted Anastasi, though he strove to hide it from the Poles. “He is very cunning,” he said measuringly.

“Cunning,” repeated Father Pogner. “Yes, as a dangerous animal is cunning: a wolf or a hunting cat.”

Father Kovnovski looked uneasy, but said nothing. He edged away from Anastasi as if there were illness clinging to him.

“Well, for that reason there can be no music while you visit,” said Anastasi with a gesture of mild regret. “But as priests, perhaps you would not like to have music in any case.”

Father Pogner did not actually smile, but there was an expression of satisfaction in his eyes. “A perceptive remark, Duke.” “Very kind,” said Anastasi. He took a step back, taking care not to slip on the ice. “Very well, then. Tomorrow afternoon, good Poles, and my gratitude for your courtesy.”

As Father Pogner blessed him, Anastasi went back to his horse and swung up into the high-pommeled saddle. He set his roan at a slow, delicate trot toward the Savior Gate, letting the horse choose the way as he was lost in thought.

By the time the Jesuits arrived the next afternoon, Anastasi had worked out his plans and was ready for their visit. Everything he knew about the Jesuits had been considered, including Father Pogner’s obvious jealousy and distrust of Ferenc Rakoczy. The Polish embassy had much to tell him, he knew, and he intended to gain every advantage he could from the priests. He himself answered the door and ushered the priests in, pausing to bless the ikons in spite of the disapproving stare Father Pogner gave him.

“Welcome to my house, good Fathers. Enter freely, and know that your will rules here.” He reverenced them both, and led them to the grander of his two reception rooms, which had been the last achievements of the carpenters who built the house. He indicated the cushioned chairs and bowed again. “I hope you will be comfortable here. My household has been alerted to your presence and the servants will answer your summonses if you call for them.” He coughed once. “The priest who attends to this household, Father Iliya, is not here at present. He informed me that after mid-day Mass he was going to offer prayers for the repose of Galina Alexandrevna’s soul: he will not return until after sunset Mass.”

“Most Orthodox priests do not wish to speak with us,” said

Father Pogner, his modesty tinged with smugness. “Nevertheless we will pray for him, as he prays for the repose of your kinswoman’s soul.”

Father Kovnovski crossed himself at once, saying, “I was sorry to learn of your grief.”

Anastasi was unprepared for this sympathy and did not answer as quickly as he might have. “Yes. She was stricken suddenly and died less than five days later, in the pious care of the nuns. She suffered much in her life, poor woman, but at least saw her daughter wed at last. They say her end was blessed.” He crossed himself. “They pray for her morning and night.” He did not add it was Rakoczy, not himself, who had paid for the prayers.

“A devoted gesture,” said Father Pogner, choosing the hardest-looking chair and taking his place there, back pike-straight, hands in his lap. “I am curious about you and your remarks, Duke Shuisky,” he said, getting down to business, his expression set and severe.

“And I about you,” said Anastasi, clapping his hands to summon his servants. He refused to be hurried. “Bring refreshments. These good men of God should not have to beg their supper like pilgrims.”

“It is our pleasure to do this,” they said in good form. The two servants reverenced Anastasi and then Fathers Pogner and Kovnovski, hastening out of the reception room to carry out their master’s orders and to inform the rest of the staff about these latest visitors to the house.

A few moments later the erect, searching figure of Piotr Grigoreivich Smolnikov appeared in the doorway, one hand clutching the frame. “You have visitors, Anastasi Sergeivich,” he said, cocking his head to hear what he could not see. “I hear foreign voices. Not Greeks this time?”

“I certainly have visitors, most important ones. These men are from the Polish embassy: Father Pogner and Father Kovnovski.” He said the names quickly, adding to the priests, “This is Piotr Grigoreivich Smolikov; he lives here. He is a great hero.” He inclined his head in the direction of the blind old man. “He led the defense of the Armorers’ Quarter twelve years ago, when the Mongols raided Moscovy. Before that, he rode in battle from Kazan to Bryansk. Czar Ivan himself honored Piotr Grigoreivich for his prowess in battle.”

“An honor,” said Father Pogner harshly.

Father Kovnovski was more kindly. “Your valor is inspiring.” “And a Mongol lance robbed me of my eyes,” said Piotr quietly, making a hint of a reverence in the direction of the voices. “God spared my life, and Anastasi Sergeivich took pity upon me.”

“Nonsense,” said Anastasi heartily. “It is a credit to this house that you live within its walls.” He let the Poles make note of this, then went on, “You may join us, if it pleases you. We are going to speak about religious concerns.”

Piotr crossed himself at once. “I am not a religious man. I say my prayers and bless the ikons, but for the rest, I leave that to more learned men.” He made another reverence in the direction of the Poles. Using his hand on the wall to feel his way, he left Anastasi and his guests to their conversation.

“I hope the intrusion did not distress you,” said Anastasi. “You must understand that Piotr Grigoreivich was once used to the rigor and excitement of life in the saddle. Now he is confined to these walls and a few streets near this house, and it causes him much anguish.”

“Your charity is commendable,” said Father Pogner, tapping his fingertips together impatiently. “But I hope we may discuss other matters.” He looked directly at Anastasi. “Unless you have changed your mind since yesterday.”

“By no means,” said Anastasi, coming toward the Poles. “Sit down, Father Kovnovski, and be comfortable.” He indicated one of the other chairs and waited while Father Kovnovski complied. “You are certainly aware, are you not, that there are severe restrictions imposed on the Orthodox Church in Moscovy from outside? The Patriarch in Jerusalem chooses our Metropolitans and does so without regard to the requests and claims of the Czar or the Court. This is a disgraceful thing, for men who have devoted themselves to the Patriarch are promoted above those who are faithful to Moscovy and know the plight of her people. In these days, with the Orthodox Church as beleaguered as the Roman Church, such indulgence cannot continue without serious consequences to the souls of the Rus.” He crossed himself. “You are Polish as much as you are priests, and you understand what it is to be far from the center of authority. You know the dangers we know. Surely you share the apprehension I have felt for the last dozen years, for the safety of Christian worship.” He placed his square hand on his beard. “I am not the only nobleman who fears the time when Christ will be displaced by the green banners of Mohammed, and all our ikons destroyed to stamp out the Christian faith in all Russia.”

“All of us are aware of the dangers presented by the Turk,” said Father Pogner direcdy. “That is one of the reasons King Istvan ordered us to come here. Christian countries cannot be at war with one another when the forces of Mohammed are loose in the world.”

“Yes. Precisely,” said Anastasi. “You understand me completely.” He lowered his eyes. “And so many here are blind; because we have beaten back the Mongols and have reclaimed our lands for Rus, they suppose that the Turk will not touch us.”

Father Kovnovski shifted awkwardly in his chair, glancing at Father Pogner before he spoke. “The Czar has said that the Turk does not want your forests and long winters, and that our battles against the Turk are not the batdes of Russia. How are we to convince him otherwise?”

“But the battles against the Turk
are
the battles of the Orthodox Church, for the Turk captured Constantinople, and the patriarch had to flee to Jerusalem, where he is surrounded on every side by the armies of Mohammed.” Anastasi slammed his fist into his open palm. “That strikes at the heart of the Orthodox faith, and I say that we Rus cannot permit ourselves to become the servants of Jerusalem, for that would make us servants of the Turk!”

Father Pogner was struck by this argument and nodded in Anastasi’s direction with the beginning of respect. “It could be a terrible blow,” he said, anticipating the time when the Catholic Church would come to the rescue of Russia and convert them all.

“Yes, it would,” said Anastasi, recognizing the blatant purpose in the old Jesuit. “You could provide a fortress against our enemies, who are also your enemies. You could save us.” He held up his hand for silence as he heard the sound of his servants returning. “Your refreshments have arrived, worthy Poles,” he declared as the door was opened. “Pray accept the hospitality I offer with a good heart and a strong appetite.”

The servants carried a large tray laden with kulebyaki filled with roast kid, roast duck, and sweet cheeses surrounding a golden bowl of melon sections preserved in cherry wine. “Anas- tasi Sergeivich Shuisky offers this to you,” he said correctly as the servants placed the tray on the largest table.

“It is a noble repast,” said Father Kovnovski, once again fitting his response to Father Pogner’s humor as best he could. “We are grateful to be received so courteously.”