Darker Jewels (5 page)

“Saying such things could lose your skin for you, Greek,” said Shuisky. “If I were to accuse you—”

“You would not dare do that,” said Nikodemios. “I would have a few things to accuse you of, as well. And the rest of your family.”

Now Shuisky snickered, a sound like wet leather straps slapping together. “But you are a foreigner and I am a nobleman; my family is noble,” he said confidently. “They would not believe you. Foreigners are not guests here, they are strangers. I need only point you out and declare that you have spoken against the Czar and his son. They would start with your feet, taking the skin off slowly so that you will not bleed to death too quickly. They would leave you hanging, your own skin dangling off you in wide strips. It takes a long time to die that way.”

“It would not be wise,” said Nikodemios, though his brow had gone white and his voice was a little breathless. “I have many secrets that would embarrass more nobles than you and your relatives.”

“You mean you would shame the oprichniks? That is nothing to me.” He cocked his head. “But perhaps I will not denounce you for a spy. If you assist me, I may be persuaded to keep your confidence a while.” His high color had abated now that he was once again in control of his emotions. “I want to know why you think it was I who sent word to Istvan Bathory. Why have you come to me?”

“A ... a priest claimed he saw such a letter, that it came from this house. Our source was reliable and has never been incorrect before.” He was clearly less certain than he had been at first. He had supposed that he would be able to strike a bargain with Anastasi Shuisky and that had proved impossible. Now he was left with no plan to guide him.

“Not the priest who lives in this house,” said Anastasi, hoping it would not be true.

“No, not in this house,” said Nikodemios, too quickly, which gave him away.

It was possible to smile; his smile was cold. “And how did Father Iliya come to see this letter he claims to have read?” asked Anastasi, feeling his way with caution.

“I don’t know.” He decided to offer some information without having Anastasi ask for it, in the hope that it would improve his position. “But being a true man of God, he sent word to the Patriarch in Jerusalem. He feared that addressing the Metropolitan here might lead to accusations and imprisonment, though he had discovered treason. The power of the boyars—” He was frightened. His faded brown eyes shifted resdessly from one object to another in the room, as if seeking a haven from Anastasi.

“I see,” said Anastasi, believing Nikodemios implicitly. It was just what the old man would do. It served him right for permitting a literate priest in his house, he thought. He would know better next time. “He must have entrusted his letter to monks or priests.”

“It was brought by a monk,” said Nikodemios, nodding several times as if to convince Anastasi more completely.

“And therefore they will expect to remain informed,” said Anastasi, his mind working quickly now. Of first importance was to get this worrisome Greek out of Moscovy, to a place where he could be dealt with. “I think it would be best if you returned to my cousin’s estate. It would be dangerous for you to be here in Moscovy. You will carry a letter to my cousin and you will wait there for further instructions.” He rocked back on his heels. “And if you fail to do this, I will denounce you to the Metropolitan and the Czar, and your life will be worth less than cattle dung.”

Nikodemios watched Anastasi with the same concentration that a rat watches a house cat. At last he said, “What of the Patriarch in Jerusalem?”

“What of him?” said Anastasi. “He is nothing to me but an inconvenience. If you contact him, my cousin will make short work of you.” He was already planning the letter he would send to Yuri, and the orders he would give that very junior member of his noble family.

“He is expecting reports, the Patriarch is,” said Nikodemios. “If he does not receive them, he may—”

“Oh, he will receive them,” said Anastasi very smoothly. “He will receive them regularly.” He looked directly at Nikodemios, his furious smile growing more pronounced. “It will all be arranged.”

Nikodemios was truly terrified. “Duke, it would be a sin if you were to deceive the Patriarch. It would be a sin to harm his messenger.”

Anastasi shook his head slowly, his cold smile dazzling as sun on ice. “But I have so many sins on me already. What difference will a few more make? Sin is part of life, stranger, and no man can escape it. Remember that,” he added as Nikodemios moved to the far side of the room. “With all my sins, what difference will that deception make? Or murder?” He looked away, his attitude changing to one of languid contempt. “Go to the kitchen. They will feed you. And one of my guards will go with you back to my cousin’s estate. Tomorrow.” This delay was a concession for the benefit of his servants, not for the Greek messenger. “The chief cook will show you where you can sleep.”

“Praise God,” Nikodemios said in Greek, and wished fervently that he had gone to the Metropolitan instead of coming here, to the house of this smiling, deadly nobleman.

Text of a letter from Father Wojciech Kovnovski to his sister in Gniezno.

In the Name of the Trinity, my greetings to you, dear Danuta, and to your husband.

Ipray that God has protected you thusfar through this terrible winter and will bring you to safety and health as spring comes on. The priest who reads this to you will know of the great task the Pope and King Istvan have set for us; depend on him to explain to you what an honor has been bestowed upon the eight of us. I am filled with gratitude for this opportunity to demonstrate my devotion to the Church and God.

For the time that we are gone, I anticipate that it will be difficultfor any of us to send personal letters from Moscovy, and so this is to serve as a temporary farewell. Do not despair if there

are years that pass without wordfrom me. With God’s Grace, we shall meet again in this life, and if not, then we will share the Light of God in Heaven.

I can think of no finer act than the upholding of the Catholic Church in this time of need. To be provided the chance to bring the souls ensnared by the Orthodox Church to the True Faith once again is the greatest joy. I am overcome with satisfaction and thanksgiving. I hear the souls of Russia cry out to me in their need for the Blood of Redemption. We know from the earlier attempt at reunification that there are many Rus who are anxious to embrace the True Church, but who have been deprived of the salvation they seek through the connivance of the Orthodox Patriarch and the Metropolitan ofMoscovy. The might of Constantinople is gone, and the city is in the hands of those who follow the Prophet of Islam. The people of Russia know that without Rome they are as lost as Constantinople is, and they desire to turn to us, to become part of the Church and, through the Church, the servants of Christ. This time we will not fail in our task, but will emerge with Russia once again part of the Catholic Christian community, allied to Rome, and all declared against the Sultans and the forces of Islam.

We will travel in the escort of a company of lancers. There will be fifty armed men to guard us to Moscovy, not so much against the Rus, but against the bandits and other outlaws who prey on travelers. We are being permitted servants for our service as embassy.

There is a Hrabia, or Comte or Graf or Prinz—I have heard him called by all those titles—-from Transylvania, a countryman of King Istvan’s, who accompanies us. It is said that he is an alchemist, but in what little contact I have had with the man, I see nothing of the devil about him. It is the King’s wish that this man influence the Czar by presenting him with gifts. It would be incorrectfor priests to do such things, and so this exiled Transylvanian ivill serve King Istvan in this way.

Though it is wrong of me to confess this, I must tell you that I cannot help but hope that if my actions meet ivith the approval of King Istvan I might be given advancement within the Church. There is so much I could do if I had a more influential position. I have humbly accepted my place within the Church, but with this venture, I have allowed myself greater scope of intention.

Until now I thought it would be my lot to remain a mere priest. I was content to serve God in that capacity. But now lam aware that there might be benefits resulting from the task that has been given to me, and I pray that I will show myself worthy of higher position within the Church, to which my experiences will surely entitle me. No, I look no higher than Bishop, but I cannot see why such advancement is impossible if I comport myself well in Moscovy. I have accepted the rebuke of my Confessor for my pride, but I cannot yet dismiss my hopes as unreasonable and prideful.

May God bless you and your family, dear sister, and may you all thrive in His favor until I return to you. Know that you are always in my prayers, and that as soon as it is possible, I will send word to you. In the meantime, I ask for your remembrance while I am gone.

With the deep affections of a brother, Father Wojciech. Kovnovski By my own hand, on the Feast of Saint John Chrysostom, January 27, 1583 At Saint Jerzy of Armenia Church.

3

February was bitter, with blowing drifts of snow that made traveling all but impossible. Istvan Bathory had moved the Court to winter quarters as near the Russian border as seemed wise, and now had his hands full of impatient younger sons and gathering priests who were ready to advance to the east, into the heart of Russia, and were made prisoners by the terrible cold.

“It’s bad for the horses, all this waiting. They chew the wood in their stalls and their legs swell,” insisted Hrabia Dariusz Zary as he paced the length of the soldiers’ hall, relentless as a caged tiger. “They’re getting stale, having nothing to do day after day.”

“They cannot be taken out in a blizzard,” said Istvan testily. He was aching from the cold and had not slept well. “If you want to sweep out the old armory, they may be ridden there."

“Hah!” scoffed Zary with an impatient toss of his head. “'What good is it to tide a horse around a room? It bores you and it bores the horse.” He folded his arms defiantly and waited for Istvan to castigate him.

He was deprived of that recreation, for the door swung open and four men in snow-crusted cloaks stumbled in, one of them coughing badly. As they rid themselves of their frozen, sodden garments, they were revealed as priests, two of them in the habit of the Jesuits, the other two in pluvials with minimal embroidery.

“Father Casimir Pogner,” said the oldest of the four, a tall, weathered man with hard eyes and a thin mouth. “These are Fathers Milan Krabbe, Stanislaw Brodski, and Dodek Komel.” He looked around, seeing only the young Zary and Istvan, who had none of the regalia they expected in their King, and therefore paid him scant attention. “Who else has arrived?”

“Father Aniol Tymon and Father Wicus Felikeno have come,” said the young nobleman, striving to show the priests the respect King Istvan required of him in spite of his own low opinion of clerics. “Fathers Lomza and Kovnovski have not yet arrived. We expect them in a day or two, when the weather improves.” Father Pogner nodded slowly. “They have a greater distance to come. With God protecting them, they will make a swift journey.”

“Of course,” said Hrabia Zary, realizing belatedly that Istvan was testing the newcomers, playing a game with them. He decided to make the most of this opportunity. “Now that you have arrived, doubtless you have much to do. Perhaps you wanted to present yourselves to the King?”

“Yes,” said Father Pogner rather distantly. His nose wrinkled at the overpowering odor of wet wool as he spread out his cloak to dry. “After we have seen the Bishop, of course.”

Zary glanced at Istvan, who had busied himself with working wax into the saddle set out over the arm of his chair. “Not the King first?”

“The King is our sponsor, and for that we owe him courtesy. As men who were bom on Polish soil, we honor him. But we are priests, and our first duty is to the Church,” said Father Pogner, with a quelling look at the other three, for it seemed that Father Komel was about to protest. “So we will present ourselves to the

Bishop and ask his blessing before we bow to the King.” His lips widened, but it was not possible to call that a smile.

“The King might not be pleased,” said Zary. “Since he is sending you as his representatives to Ivan’s Court.”

“We go as priests,” said Father Brodski, who was a bit younger than the others. He ducked his head toward Father Pogner, clearly seeking his approval.

He did not receive it. “See that you remember that, all of you,” said Father Pogner. “Where is the Bishop?”

Istvan answered the question, addressing the Jesuits with a show of respect. “He is in the village, good Fathers; he has been given the use of a house there, next to the church of the Savior. When the wind dies down, it will be much easier to find the place. As it is—”

Father Pogner stood straighter than before. “Surely someone will guide us. We must not delay.” He motioned to the priests, his expression resigned but still purposeful. “It might be best to put your cloaks back on, if we must go out into the storm again.”

“A messenger could be sent for the Bishop,” suggested Istvan, with a covert motion to Hrabia Zary to remain silent.

“That is not appropriate,” said Father Pogner. He watched as Father Krabbe picked up his cloak again, coughing with the slight effort. “You may be excused from this obligation, Father Krabbe,” he declared. “You must seek the aid of the physician if you are to be fit to travel to Moscovy.”

Father Krabbe crossed himself.
"Deo gratias, ’’
he whispered, and coughed again. His hunched posture and fever-pinched features made him appear older and more frail than he was, for his hair was still rich brown and the lines in his face were not deep, and judging from the way his Jesuit habit fit, he had a good breadth of shoulder.

“Father Komel, Father Brodski, prepare yourselves,” ordered Father Pogner. He regarded Istvan with brief interest. “If there is someone who should inform the King of our arrival, tell me his name.”

“I will tend to it,” said Istvan. “Hasten to make yourself known to the Bishop, by all means. The King will wait your pleasure,” he went on, aware that only he appreciated his irony; the three priests left the room.