Darker Jewels (54 page)

The warehouse was silent. Then a soft, stifled cough came from the same comer as before.

“I said, show yourself.” For emphasis he slapped the flat of the sword’s blade against his leg. “I will come after you if—”

“No.” Xenya Evgeneivna stepped out of the darkness into the predawn gloom. “You need not come after me, Rothger,” she said in a small voice.

Of all the many persons he might have expected to find, Rothger had not anticipated confronting his master’s wife. He stood quite still before sheathing his sword. “How do you come to be here?” he asked without preamble.

“I followed you,” she admitted, keeping to the edge of the shadow where the muted light of the lamps could barely reach. “I said I was going to the Convent of the Mercy of the Virgin, to offer charity. No one stopped me. They were afraid to.”

“It wasn’t very wise to come here,” Rothger chided her.

“It wouldn’t be wise to be sequestered in the country, as invisible as the dead. I am where a wife should be, with her husband.” She took another step forward, determination showing in every line of her. As she came nearer she faltered, staring at the muffled burden over Rothger’s shoulder. “Ferenc Nemo- vich?” She crossed herself.

“Yes,” said Rothger, and added, “He’s alive.”

She came the rest of the way to Rothger’s side. “Will he live?”

Rothger met her eyes directly. “Yes, he will,” he said. “He is very badly hurt but he will recover. Do not worry for him, give your thoughts to yourself and your own safety. Rest assured he will survive; you are still in danger. Litde as you may want it, invisibility can be an asset. My master would tell you the same thing, if he could. You must leave Moscovy.” He did his best to reassure her with a tight smile as he continued on toward the larger wagon.

“I must,” she agreed, and her eyes became bright as she followed him. “But not to go to Nikolai Grigoreivich Danilov, running for cover like some cur. Oh, most surely I know the plans are well-intended, but I want none of them. I will not leave him to the depredations of his enemies.” Her attitude was defiant as she faced Rothger. “I will not leave him.”

“What?” Rothger halted again.

“I will not leave him,” she repeated; her defiance became dignity. “I know what it means to be left in danger, and how grave the consequences are because I myself have suffered them and I know their cost in my soul. I will not abandon him. Do not ask it of me, Rothger.”

Rothger had been about to try to persuade her to change her mind, but there was something in the way she stood, in the timbre of her voice and the resolute purpose that filled her that convinced him utterly. “Very well,” he acquiesced. “I will not.”

Text of a letter from Piotr Grigoreivich Smolnikov to Czar Feodor, dictated in secret to Father Iliya at the Chapel of Saints Hipparchus and Philotheus.

To the most gracious and high-born Czar Feodor Ivanovich, with the devotion and dedication of your servant Piotr Grigoreivich Smolnikov, in the sincere belief that he must reveal that which he has learned:

Your servant was once an accomplished officer and has stood in the defense of this city four times until Mongol arrows robbed him of his sight, and for that reason is still determined to act to protect Moscovy and the Little Father.

Duke Anastasi Sergeivich Shuisky has provided me a living since the loss of my sight, and he has shown generosity and charity to me in age. I owe him my gratitude, and were it not required that I serve the Czar first and foremost, I would have to continue in my loyalty to the noble who has so ably demonstrated Christian virtue and Russian purpose. But the duty I have sworn to the Czar is greater than any but the duty I have to God, and therefore I must set aside the demands of gratitude in order to serve those of fealty. Most reluctantly, I must inform you, great Czar of Holy Russia, that my benefactor, the noble Duke Anastasi Sergeivich Shuisky, has foresworn his oaths to you and to Russia in order to strive for his own advancement even at the price of your sacred life, Little Father.

It is true that I can no longer use my eyes, but my ears are still acute, and God has not sent me a double affliction. I have put my ears to use, giving my attention to everything that has taken place in Anastasi Sergeivich’s house, and from this I have come to learn that my gracious host has become embroiled in a number of nefarious schemes contrived to diminish your power, Little Father, to the advantage of Shuisky.

In the last year I have heard bitter arguments between Anas- tasi Sergeivich and his cousin Vasilli Andreivich, for each man seeks to place himself on the throne for the glory of Russia and Shuisky. Both men have employed spies and other despicable creatures to undermine their rivals for power. They have often worked against each other in the hope that the family would lend full support to one or the other of them.

There have been many nights when I have awakened to the sound of hushed conversations when Anastasi Sergeivich has received his hirelings when he thought that no member of the household would know of the visit. I have overheard Anastasi Sergeivich suggest mayhem and slaughter to some of these men, in the hope that the Court of Nikita Romanov and Boris Godunov might be overthrown and other men given the task of guiding you, men who share the purpose of Shuisky instead of being dedicated to the good of all Russia. At such times I have prayed to God to show me the error of what I had discovered, to reveal the farce I longed to know was being played.

There has been no such revelation. I have come to realize that Anastasi Sergeivich, with or without the cooperation of his cousin Vasilli Andreivich, has deliberately striven to seize your throne for himself. I cannot keep such knowledge to myself, but in all faith as your sworn officer, I come to you, Little Father, to give you my warning and to beseech you to put strict watch on all the Shuiskys, to prevent any greater mischief they might otherwise bring upon our poor, bleeding country. They seek to plunder Russia as the wolf plunders the fold or as the Mongols have plundered Mother Russia in the past, and will brave any opposition if it appears they will prevail.

With every prayer of the day, I ask God’s mercy for you, Feodor Ivanovich, and for the Rus, who have endured so much for so long. I swear as a soldier that what I tell you is the truth and that the danger I have described is real. Do not ignore this humble warning if you seek to remain on your throne.

Sworn as truth at the ikonostasis, Piotr Grigoreivich Smolnikov The Feast of Saint Symphrosa and her Seven Sons by the hand of Father Iliya

8

Father Pogner’s face darkened as he stared across the writing table at Boris Feodorvich Godunov. “How can you be so willfully blind, you heathenish Russian!’’ he burst out, no longer guarding his words.

“We are more true to Christian teaching than you Romans,” Boris countered sharply. “But none of that matters in this instance. We are not here to debate theology but to discover treason.”

“That is no burden of mine,” said Father Pogner, mastering his temper enough to respond coolly. He glanced once at the two Guards flanking the door of the large reception room in Boris’ Kremlin palace. “I am in this Godforsaken country at the behest of King Istvan of Poland, not to serve your Czar.”

“Nevertheless,” said Boris, paying little heed to the epithet Father Pogner had used to refer to Russia, “there is treason here, and you are tainted with it, Jesuit.” He spread out the papers that littered his table; he was sitting with his back to the open window so it was not easy to see his expression. “These are the reports to prove you are part of it,” he went on, holding up three of them. “They are sworn as truth, and when they are presented to the Czar, he will decide how you are to be dealt with.” He paid no attention to Father Pogner’s cynical laughter. “In the meantime, I am informing you that a messenger has been sent to Istvan of Poland, alerting him to the developments of the last month. I hope that I have acted in time.”

“And did the messenger ride with the soldiers chasing Ra- koczy?” asked Father Pogner at his most snide. “It would be more efficient that way, would it not, but would he be fast enough?” He made his face bland. “Has there been any word from them? Have they caught the charlatan yet?”

Boris decided not to respond to the barb. “I have no information on Rakoczy’s present whereabouts, and it would not matter if I had. His unjust condemnation was due in large part to you, and you will answer for it. You have aided those who worked against Rakoczy because of your envy of him. You have taken every opportunity to cast his efforts into the most damning light. In doing this, you have compromised your mission and traduced the rule of the Czar.” He rose from his chair, facing Father Pogner directly. “That cannot be excused, though you are a servant of the King of Poland and an avowed priest. Be grateful that you are, or your beating would be more extreme than Rakoczy’s was.”

Father Pogner cleared his throat, glaring at Boris and hating the Asiatic cast of his features, his dark, slanted brows and black eyes. “This is a country of savages and superstition,” he declared. “You pretend to Christian virtue and civilized conduct, only pretend. Your Czar Ivan was nothing more than a heathen warlord, pillaging for treasure and calling the conquered cities his kingdom. Your Church is corrupt, proven false by the fall of Constantinople. God has sent His Angels for the protection of the Pope and Rome, but your Patriarch was cast out of his city, and rules on sufferance in Jerusalem. The message is clear for any with the mind to read it. And your Czar Feodor has no more wits than a child of ten, and is as much use.”

In the time it had taken Father Pogner to speak, Boris had passed from rage to disbelieving curiosity, for surely Father Pogner was mad to say what he did. “And why have you come here, if you have such contempt for us?” he marveled.

“God demands it of me. As a priest called of God, I have given myself up to the holy cause of Christ’s Church and the triumph of faith. Each of us is given our burden by God, and we are judged by our ability to bear it. The Church and King Istvan have ordered me here, and for the glory of God, I have come.” Zeal shone in Father Pogner’s eyes. He crossed himself Roman style, his severe countenance now a mask of self-satisfaction. “To those God intends the greatest honor He sends the greatest trials. It has been my privilege to serve God here, in this most difficult place, to bring true salvation to Russia and her people.”

“True salvation,” Boris repeated, musing on the words. “Is that what you think?” He placed his fingertips together, letting his breath out slowly between nearly closed lips. “What am I to do with you, Father Pogner? You think God sent you here as a test of your dedication. Your embassy has vowed to protect the interests of King Istvan. And Nikita Romanov wants you out of the country, with all your embassy. Vasilli Shuisky wants you condemned and imprisoned. Whatever becomes of you, as the Czar’s guardian for dealing with foreigners, it is my decision to make.” He rose and walked toward the window, gazing out into the avenue of grand wooden palaces which clustered in that quarter of the Kremlin. He could just see the comer of the Terem Palace beyond the red-painted cupola of the Kurbsky palace next to his.

It was a hot, clear day, the July sun bright as a golden platter in the sky, and all the colors of the Kremlin and the Beautiful Market Square seemed more brilliant than usual; the central spire of the Cathedral of the Virgin of the Intercession looked glossy as lacquerwork. There were festival sounds on the air, and the heavy smell of sheep and pigs from the marketplace.

Father Pogner was not inclined to answer Boris’ question at first, and then he pursed his lips. “I have been given a task by my Church, my King and my God. I have sworn to do as I am required to the very limit of my strength. It is not for the likes of you to keep me from it.”

Had the Jesuit not spoken so arrogantly, Boris might have postponed his decision, but the high-handed answer stung him. He swung around and strode back toward his writing table. “There are questions you will have to answer, questions about your activities and associates. I must and will have answers before you are once again at liberty. You will remain here until I am satisfied that we have the truth from you. We will speak with your other priests, as well, in private, in order to confirm your answers. If there is any discrepancy it will go badly for you. ”

“You have no right to demand anything of me, Godunov,” said Father Pogner. “On what authority do you issue your orders? You cannot command an ambassador of the Polish King.”

“Perhaps not,” said Boris. His smile was thin and false. “Yet the only member of your embassy who might have convinced me not to question you has become a hunted fugitive, largely due to your efforts. If Rakoczy were here, and if he asked it of me, I might be persuaded to grant you more latitude. As it is . . .” He made a sign and the two Guards came forward. “Take this Polish priest to the Yellow Chamber and keep him there. See that he has something to eat.”

The senior Guard bowed before securing Father Pogner’s upper arm. “Please to come with us,” he said in a voice wholly without emotion.

For once Father Pogner remained silent as he was led away.

Left alone, Boris wandered to the other windows in the room. He stood for a time, staring northward, wondering how far the English party had traveled in the thirteen days since it left Mos- covy. So far there had been no word from them: he had told Father Pogner the truth when he said he did not know where Rakoczy was at present. And fortunately he had not yet had to order the search extended to the north as well as the west, though Romanov and Shuisky both wanted it. A small company of mounted soldiers covered three to four times the distance the British wagons could in a day, which meant they could still be overtaken before reaching Novo-Kholmogory. The reports brought to the capital had indicated that the roads were open and passable all the way to Novo-Kholmogory, and that aside from the ferry across the Sukhona River beyond Vologda, there were few delays. Rakoczy should be aboard a ship bound for England in August if there were no delays. Often in the last several days Boris had wondered if he had been mistaken in his decision to remain in Moscovy instead of leaving with Rakoczy and the English merchants.