Darker Jewels (51 page)

“There is hot tea as well, good boyar, if you wish a samovar brought, and we have French spirits the English have kindly provided to us,” said the manservant with the slightest inclination of his head. He put the tray down on the low table and regarded Rakoczy. “Is there anything else you wish me to attend to?”

“Not just at the moment,” said Rakoczy distantly, aware that Rothger wanted very much to convey some message to him. “Not in regard to my guest, that is. But I would appreciate it if you would review the accounts on my worktable. They are in the black leather case—you know the one.”

Rothger was alarmed by the request but did not do more than raise his sandy brows. “Certainly.”

This exchange embarrassed Boris, who was never comfortable with Rakoczy’s informal manner with servants; to him it was another foreign affectation that only served to confuse the Mos- covites. He busied himself selecting the best from the delicacies on the tray.

“And if you will send word to the English while you are about it?” Rakoczy went on in the same half-attentive way. “I want to have word with Lovell at his earliest convenience. I’ll want a missive carried to his embassy before sunset, the meeting no later than mid-day tomorrow. Would you be good enough to arrange that for me?”

Now Rothger realized that there was something very wrong, and it was an effort not to ask for some explication. He inclined his head once more. “I’D do what I can, my master.”

“Thank you,” said Rakoczy gently. “You are always dependable.” He made a gesture of dismissal and returned his attention to Boris. “If my wife were here, I would ask her to join us, but she has gone to the—”

Boris cut him short, speaking around a mouthful of stuffed egg. “More of your foreign ways, having your wife present at your entertainments, and that is the sort of thing that brings disapproval upon you. We Rus see you treating your wife like a Polish woman, and—”

“More Italian than Polish,” Rakoczy corrected him with kindly irony.

“You see? This is precisely what I mean.” His black eyes glittered with frustration. “You flaunt your alien manners and you set yourself against Russian ways. There is very little I can do for you if you insist on flouting Russian customs in this way. Everyone will think your motives are . . . foreign. This is Moscovy. I wish you to understand that there are good reasons for everything we do, and that our actions are not arbitrary.”

In the last three thousand five hundred years Rakoczy had heard similar protests in many countries, many languages. He had long since stopped debating with the earnest men who expressed their feelings so sincerely. “Boris Feodorovich,” he said very politely, “I do not wish to give offense to anyone by my words or actions. But even if I were to become as Russian as I could force myself to be, I would still not be able to make any Rus think I was one of them, and instead of being the target of their umbrage, I would become the object of their contempt.”

Boris shook his head, having no argument to offer. He waited while he considered what Rakoczy had said. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

Rakoczy smiled. “Tell me that you will guard Xenya and my manservant and I will be content.”

“You have that already,” said Boris, relenting.

“Then I am satisfied,” said Rakoczy, and made a sweeping gesture toward the brass tray. “Take what you want, Boris Feodorovich, and tell me how soon I should prepare to leave this city.”

Boris all but choked on the bread in his mouth. “God’s mercy! Why should you leave?”

“There is no reason for you to ask, after what you have told me. I will have to make arrangements quickly; with your help I can be away before the end of July,” said Rakoczy, standing with his back to the largest window so that his shadow blocked out half the light.

“But if you leave, they will say the rumors about you are true,” Boris objected after swallowing hard.

“Let them. Let them have their rumors and their myths and their superstitions. Let them believe I am a servant of Satan and a leader of assassins. I have had worse accusations; believe this,” Rakoczy said with a weariness of soul that astonished Boris.

“Holy angels, what can be worse?” Boris asked, pouring himself a cup of the French spirits as he stared at his host. “Or do you mean the Turks? It is said that they claim that all who oppose them are inspired by their Satan.”

“Shaitan,” Rakoczy said quietly.

Boris ignored the interjection. “Does it not worry you to be cursed by Christians? God hears our prayers, Rakoczy. It is an honor to have the Turks inveigh against you, but to have God’s Hand against you, that is another matter.”

Rakoczy’s dark eyes flickered with amusement, then he moved away from the window. “I am no devil and 1 am no martyr, Boris Feodorovich. But an exile is always subject to . . . misfortune.”

“This is no misfortune, Rakoczy,” Boris insisted. “You must be shown to be innocent, or disaster will befall you and yours.”

“And you as well?” Rakoczy suggested gently as he watched Boris drain his cup of spirits.

Boris waved this away. “It is a minor thing for me. My mother is my greatest hazard. If it were necessary, I could always claim that you had cast a spell upon me, and that my friendship was sham, nothing more than the machinations of a clever, wicked man.” He poured another generous tot into his cup. “But I will not do that if you will defend yourself to the Court. It could be arranged quickly. The Court could hear your explanations in a month—I doubt anyone could move quickly enough to interfere with you before then. Won’t you permit me to arrange this?”

Rakoczy shook his head once. “If you like,” he replied after a short silence.

Now Boris looked relieved. “Excellent!
Excellent!”
he enthused. “That Polish Jesuit will be dealt with, and you will not have to worry about what might happen to your wife and manservant.” He drank again. “And I will have another means to combat the malice of the Shuiskys.”

“In fact,” said Rakoczy, a sardonic note in his voice, “it would benefit both of us tremendously.”

“Yes,” Boris said seriously. “And it is foolish for us to overlook such an opportunity.” He pulled his spoon from his belt and scooped out a generous portion of fish roe, all black and smelling of salt. “Fine quality,” he said, and downed the caviar in two bites.

A clatter of hooves in the narrow courtyard caught Rakoczy’s attention. He glanced toward the window but could not make out the number of horses or any identification.

Boris had heard them too. “Your wife is coming back?”

“I didn’t expect her yet,” said Rakoczy, and did not add that she would have been driven directly into the stableyard.

“Perhaps you have a friend on an errand similar to mine,” said Boris as he had more fish roe. “I am not the only noble at Court who would prefer to support you than Father Pogner.”

“That’s comforting,” said Rakoczy, trying to listen to what was going on outside without offending Boris.

“And there are those who are willing to align themselves with anyone prepared to work against Shuisky,” Boris went on expansively, pausing to lick his spoon. “Czar Feodor does not grasp how difficult the situation is, but he is aware that to advance Shuisky just now would cause a great schism at Court that would weaken us in the face of our enemies.”

There came a series of sharp raps at the door, and in answer to it, Rothger descended from the floor above.

Boris looked around as Rothger opened the door, and stepped outside as the arrivals held out a rolled parchment with the double-headed Byzantine eagle of the Czar sealing it as their introduction; they said nothing as they waited to be invited into the house.

“Who is it, Rothger?” Rakoczy called out, anticipating his answer.

“I do not know their names, but they are in the uniform of the Czar’s Guard,” Rothger answered coolly, coming into the house again.

“The Czar’s Guard,” Rakoczy repeated in a musing tone, and saw the look of consternation on Boris’ face. “Have them in.”

Three Guard officers stood in the covered porch, all armed. As they crossed the threshold they made a perfunctory blessing of the ikons before advancing on the reception room.

“I am Guard Captain Kurbsky,” announced the tallest of the three as he lowered the parchment. His form was the best Court standard and he did not stare at the contents of the exile’s house, much as he wanted to. “I have been sent on the mandate of Czar Feodor to detain the foreign exile Ferenc Rakoczy, Hrabia Saint- Germain, of the Polish embassy in Moscovy.”

Before Rakoczy could speak, Boris recovered himself and surged forward, going directly toward the young officer who had spoken. He kept a proper, respectful distance between the Captain and himself. “Rurich Valentinovich,” he said, rebuking Guard Captain Kurbsky as if he were a ten-year-old child, “what nonsense is this? Why have you come here?”

Captain Kurbsky stood straighter, his back rigid; he did not so much as glance at Boris but directed his remarks to the opposite wall. “We have been given the orders of the Czar, Boris Feodoro- vich, and we are bound to execute them.”

Rakoczy had come up behind Boris in the archway to the reception room, and now he signaled to Rothger, a gesture that had meaning only to his manservant. As Rothger bowed and slipped away, Rakoczy stepped forward to confront these soldiers. “I am Ferenc Rakoczy, Captain Kurbsky. What do you good officers and Czar Feodor want of me?” His voice was level and his manner as genial and correct as if he were serving them a banquet.

“We have orders to bring you with us,” said Captain Kurbsky, more woodenly than before. “You can bring nothing with you but the clothes you wear.”

This last angered Boris, who strode directly to Captain Kurbsky, coming much closer than convention permitted. “How dare you treat this man as if he were a common outlaw. You haven’t the right. He is part of the Polish mission. He is Hrabia Saint-Germain. He has lost his lands through battling the Turks. And you will show him the respect he deserves or you will answer to me and to—”

“It is in the Czar’s order,” Captain Kurbsky said miserably, and it was apparent that he was dismayed at the terms of the orders as well.

Boris sighed. “And who gave you these orders, Rurich Valentinovich?” he asked with a touch of impatience.

“The Little Father,” said Captain Kurbsky.

“At whose instigation? Who was with him when the orders

were issued?” Boris persisted, making a motion to Rakoczy to stay where he was. “I am certain Czar Feodor was not alone.”

Rakoczy strolled up to Boris, his manner deliberately deferential. “It may not be proper for the good Captain to reveal that, my friend.”

“Proper or not,” said Boris emphatically, “you will tell me, Rurich Valentinovich, and you will withhold nothing unless you wish your sister Zenevieva to remain unmarried.” He flung the golden cup away and folded his arms. “Well? Who was with Czar Feodor?

Captain Kurbsky rubbed his upper lip with his lower teeth, setting his impressive mustaches bouncing. “He was with Prince Shuisky.”

“I
knew
it,” Boris whispered, his black eyes kindling with ire. He would have said more but felt Rakoczy’s restraining hand on his shoulder.

“Never mind,” said Rakoczy. “It is not your fault.” He did want to be caught in a long discussion, so he turned to Captain Kurbsky. “All right. What do you require of me.” He chided himself for his predicament, for trusting to his position to serve as a modicum of protection. There had been signs for months, but he had supposed that between Boris Feodorovich Godunov and King Istvan he would be proof against danger.

“You must accompany us, at once,” said Captain Kurbsky, growing more distressed with every word. He blinked once, then stared at Rakoczy. “If it were for me to decide, Hrabia Saint- Germain, this would not be happening.”

Rakoczy heard Boris’ muffled expletive, but said with composure, “I am grateful to you for telling me.” He paused. “Should I take one of my own horses, or would you—”

“We will provide a horse,” said Captain Kurbsky, breathing a bit more quickly. “We are supposed to shackle you, but I will not put the irons on you.”

“Will you tell me why I am being . . . detained?” Rakoczy asked, his voice still light and faintly ironic.

“It is not permitted,” said Captain Kurbsky.

“Then tell me,” said Boris, and with such authority that Captain Kurbsky took refuge in speaking to the wall again.

“He is accused of being a Satanic magician and a murderer,” said the Captain as if reciting the order of march. “Because he is

noble he cannot be executed except for treason. Because he is foreign, he must be punished. Therefore the Court magistrates will decide what is to be done. You will have to learn from them what they determine, Boris Feodorovich.”

“And that I will,” said Boris with energy, starting toward the door. “You may be certain of it.”

Rakoczy paused before blessing the ikons. “I would appreciate that,” he said and added, “After you see to the safety of my wife and my servant.”

Text of a letter to the Court magistrates of Czar Feodor from Father Pogner on behalf of the Polish embassy in Moscovy.

To the most learned and potent boyars, the magistrates of the Court of the Czar of Russia, this carries the most humble greetings from the leader of the Polish embassy, in answer to the inquiries sent yesterday:

You say you wish to know of any extenuating circumstances that would accountfor the activities of Ferenc Rakoczy of Transylvania other than those of the charges made against him: that he is a witch and magician in the legions of Satan, and that he slew or caused to have slain the noble and too-trusting Father Milan Krabbe; that he exercised his magical arts upon your late Czar Ivan, leading Czar Ivan into greater madness through the demonic jewels he made andfurther corrupting him in pandering to his lusts for riches and the acquisition of treasure, which is the sin of avarice.

I can offer no defense for this despicable man, for I am one who has believed from the first that the purposes of this Rakoczy were malign and that his arts sprang from no holy source. At the beginning of this mission I urged King Istvan not to send this man with us, but my protestations were not sufficient to persuade a Transylvanian that a countryman of his was a nefarious wizard, one who would bring calamity and disgrace on himself and Poland. My warnings went unheeded and my arguments were dismissed as folly, so great was Rakoczy’s influence with King Istvan.