Darker Jewels (56 page)

“It is a reminder that you may have put yourself at a disadvantage for no purpose,” said Boris even more bluntly. “It may be that Vasilli Andreivich is well-aware of what you plan, and is using your aspirations to aid his own cause without any benefit to you. He may have already arranged marriages for his daughters with Nikita Romanovich, who has sons, too. You may have done his bidding to the detriment of your children, not their advancement.” He enjoyed the discomfort he saw on Anastasi’s features. “Why should Vasilli aid you when he can have your devotion to his cause without it?”

“Vasilli Andreivich is not so cynical,” said Anastasi with a laugh that almost came off. “He is not about to advance Romanov when he can advance Shuisky.”

“Possibly not,” Boris conceded immediately. “But suppose that you were his goat, Anastasi Sergeivich?” He indicated the papers on his writing table. “Read them for yourself, if you like. There are indications that Vasilli has gained certain advantages from your deeds, but nothing here indicates that you have acted in any way but at your own instigation.” He put his hands on the table, leaning forward. “If the Metropolitan does not speak out in your behalf, then I must assume that you are responsible for all the acts recorded here.”

“You do not suppose that either my cousin or I would be so reckless and stupid as to leave clear blame for more than one of us, do you?” Anastasi cocked his head as if waiting to hear a child answer. “Do you think we are so unable to guard ourselves, Boris Feodorovich?”

“I think it would be possible for a Shuisky to betray more than the Czar,” said Boris. “If you have to answer for what your cousin has done, you will be more than a fool, you will be twice the traitor, and betray yourself.”

“Twice, because Vasilli Andreivich—assuming he has done anything—would still be free to plot the overthrow of the Czar? Have I taken your meaning correctly?” Anastasi waved the whole idea away with a quick, fussy gesture. “Why do you try to force me to speak against my own family? I am ambitious, and I would rather that Shuisky ruled here than Czar Feodor, but I am no tool of my cousin’s will.”

“And all you have done has been for your benefit and the advancement of your sons?” Boris inquired, his voice rising with incredulity. “The Church and the Court will condemn you for all you have done.”

Anastasi fingered his beard. “Do they tell you I am very bad?” he asked sarcastically. “Am I a demon’s servant?”

“You are without doubt a criminal,” said Boris deliberately, “and you will answer for your crimes. But who will answer with you, and spare you the plight of a hard, long death?”

This time Anastasi’s laughter was rich and loud. “What an obvious trap you lay, Boris Feodorovich. I thought you more subtle than that.” He took a step back from the writing table. “Oh, yes, I have sought to remove Czar Feodor from the throne, that I freely acknowledge. I will say so again if you demand I confess to the Court as well. 1 will also confess to blasting Czar Ivan’s wits—”

“His grief did that,” Boris interrupted.

“Do you know that beyond cavil?” Anastasi challenged, beginning to enjoy himself. “I will confess that I blasted Czar Ivan’s wits, and that I summoned the tailed star to increase his madness, that I influenced the Lappish witches to predict the day when 1 would kill him, so that no one would realize that I murdered him.” He rubbed his hands together. “And then we will see what the Court will say. They might order me killed, if I maintain my silence and my dignity as the Europeans would have us do. They dare not order me imprisoned, in case Shuisky ever rises to Czar, for then they would have reason to fear my vengeance. If they are wise it would be death.” He beamed seraphically. “Or they might send me to one of the distant monasteries to pray for the restoration of my wits by the mercy of God. They would leave my wife and children alone, except to pity them because of me. Think of it: Anastasi Sergeivich Shuisky as a humble monk, penitent and striving to expiate his pride. Do you reckon it would take long for everyone to forget what I have done? In time I may become a Holy Fool, and speak words of wisdom. The Metropolitan would like that, wouldn’t he, having a noble wandering the streets in rags preaching his madness. Guilt and tribulation and a reward of visions. How the Court would envy me then, getting to say precisely what I like and to be venerated for it. What do you think?” He laughed again, letting all his dread and all his hope go with it.

Boris regarded him narrowly. “What am I to say to you?” He hated the sound of Anastasi’s laughing. “It is very clever.”

Anastasi was silent at once, then said, “Madmen are often clever.”

“Yes; they are,” said Boris, wondering how true it was now.

Text of a dispatch from Czar Feodor to the Guard station at Spaso-Kamenny, countersigned by Nikita Romanovich Romanov and Vasilli Andreivich Shuisky, carried by Czar’s messenger and delivered on August 2.

As Czar of all the Russias, it is my wish that you seek out and detain a foreigner, one Ferenc Rakoczy, late of the embassy of

King Istvan of Poland, believed to be in the company of English merchants bound for Novo -Kholmogory. This foreigner has been given thirty lashes with the knout and it may be that his injuries have brought him to answer before God instead of permitting him to answer to me.

You may proceed in the full confidence of my approval and reward of your actions, even if they must be taken against the subjects of my ally, Elizabeth of England, who has been my staunch friend as she was thefriend of my gloriousfather before me.

If there is resistance to this detainment, you are authorized to take whatever actions are necessary to bring Rakoczy back to Moscovy to answer questions of vital importance to me and to those of my Court who have been maligned and otherwise slandered by this foreign exile.

You are also ordered not to kiU this Rakoczy. As part of the Polish mission, he is to be respected, but as an enemy of the Czar, he is to be arrested so that he may answer all claims brought against him, and reveal those Rus who have joined with his nefarious plans to murder the Czar. If Rakoczy is killed, he will not be able to inform us who his associates are. Should Rakoczy die in your care, you will answer for it.

However it is done, Rakoczy must be returned to Moscovy, to the protection of Prince VasiUi Sergeivich Shuisky, who will undertake the task of questioning the foreigner. He will give a full report to the Czar, and that report will include his opinion of how well you have discharged your orders. His good review will bring you favor; his condemnation will disgrace you for the rest of your lives.

You are warned that this Rakoczy is a magician, of great power and influence. He has already caused Prince Shuisky’s cousin to go mad, and he presented cursed jewels to Czar Ivan, to disorder his addled senses so that God’s mercy could not restore his sanity in spite of the prayers and devotions of all Rus. Beware that this alchemist does not work his spells on you. Do not think you can conquer his magic. Others have tried and paid a high pricefor their assumptions. Therefore guard against his might with yourfaith and your weapons. Never let him have access to one of you alone, but be diligent: two of you must always be present with him, otherwise you expose yourselves to his influence.

Give thanks to God that Czar Feodor has escaped the sly efforts of this Transylvanian devil. May He send you good horses and a swift arrest.

Under the double eagle of Russia at the mandate of Czar Feodor Ivanovich, last of the Danilov dynasty Vasilli Andreivich Shuisky Nikita Romanovich Romanov

9

Nineteen days out from Moscovy the English wagons met their first delay: a bridge over one of the small rivers cutting through the vast northern forestlands had collapsed during a thunderstorm when an ancient pine had fallen on it. Peasants from the local village were attempting to rebuild it without interrupting their summer farming, and so the reconstruction was not rapid. Ordinarily they would have welcomed the assistance offered by the travelers, but they looked askance on the English volunteers.

“You are not Rus,” the local priest Father Sevastyan explained to the head of the company, a tall young man with pale hair and a sea-weathered face named William Flemming. “It would be a bad omen, to have the bridge built by those who are not Rus. It would fall again when the first Rus merchants crossed over it.” He crossed himself and waited to hear what else the English would say.

“We have over three dozen men,” Flemming said, using Benedict Lovell to translate for him. “They’re all willing.”

“It is not right, having them build the bridge,” said Father Sevastyan with a sigh. “If you were Rus we would gladly accept the offer, but—” He gestured. “There is a cleared field, not too far off this path. You may spend the night there. And if you cannot wait for the bridge, there is a place some way upstream.”

“Some way?” said Flemming suspiciously; in Russia distances were vast, and they could go many days out of their way looking for the ford.

“Seven, perhaps eight versts,” said the priest as he thought about it. “There is a village there, with a catde market.”

“And they probably call it Oxford,” said Lovell to Flemming at the end of his translation. “The place you can get cattle across the river.”

Father Sevastyan scowled at their laughter, and held up an admonitory finger. “It is a serious business, traveling here. If you are light-minded, you will not survive.”

Lovell translated the warning and regarded Father Sevastyan with sympathy. “We meant no disrespect. We were recalling a town in England where the same thing has happened.” He patted his chest. “It is my home.”

Some of Father Sevastyan’s caution diminished. “Ah? Well, it may be so.” He did not allow the foreigners to draw him into talk about England; he pointed in the direction of the field. “You may stay there for the night. Our women will cook for you, at the charge of three golden coins for all.”

“We will pay it gladly, and one more for your church,” said Lovell, who had become familiar with the expected social forms in Russia. “We have traveled a long way, and one grows tired of stews. There are eleven wagons; two drivers and two out-riders per wagon. All but the last belong to Mister Flemming here, and are laden with Russian goods bound for markets in England. It is his men we want to have food prepared for. The eleventh is the property of a foreign nobleman.” He indicated the last wagon in the line. “He has been injured and we do not want to disturb him while he mends.” He could not quite keep the surprise from his voice, for he had never supposed that Rakoczy would recover from the knouting.

Flemming glanced uneasily toward that last wagon. “He is traveling with his wife and his servant. His driver is hired by him for this journey and therefore not one of mine.” He looked at the villagers who had gathered around them. “I am certain that they will want food along with the rest of us.”

Lovell was not as convinced as Flemming was. “The driver will, certainly, but the others with Rakoczy might not.” He stared at Flemming. “I will speak with them, and find out what they want.”

“If you think that best,” said Flemming, dismissing the matter, and looking annoyed while Lovell translated it for the benefit of

Father Sevastyan. “Don’t you think this is unnecessary?” he asked when the scholar was silent.

“I think we need the goodwill of these people, and travelers like Rakoczy occasion remarks; it’s best to anticipate them.” He shaded his eyes and peered up at the sun. “It’s getting late. Unless you want to be on the road at sunset we might as well stop here, though it is early. We either stay here for the night or try to find our way to the cattle ford, and as we don’t know the road between here and there—”

“Yes, yes,” said Flemming impatiently. “It makes more sense to stay here even if we go to the cattle ford tomorrow. We will have all day for the journey, and on these narrow tracks we will not make much progress.” He sighed. “Tell the priest we will have our camp set in an hour. Invite him to visit us, if you think it wise.”

Lovell translated some of what Flemming had said, and embroidered the invitation so that he sounded more eager to have the peasants visit them. He assured Father Sevastyan that the English wanted to have a last taste of Russian hospitality before they went aboard their own ships and setded in to the long, arduous days at sea. “There must be good singers in this village. Perhaps you would favor us with a few songs. We will not hear good Russian songs for a long time, once we are gone.”

“It is a great honor,” said Father Sevastyan, beaming in anticipation. “There are fine singers here. Fine, fine singers.”

“What did you tell him?” asked Flemming as they made their way back to the wagons. “It turned him up sweet, whatever it was.”

“I asked him to arrange for us to be entertained tonight,” said Lovell, and reading the sudden greed in Flemming’s eyes, he added, “Not women—no one should touch the women—but singing.”

“Loaves and fishes!” swore Flemming. “They’ll be at it half the night.”

“And they will cook for the occasion,” added Lovell, smiling a litde as the significance of what he said sank in. “Better than having to buy old bread, as we had to last night in Nizhkovo.”

Flemming gestured his approval. “Yes. I see your point. Very canny.” He clapped Lovell on the back. “Not bad for an Oxford scholar. You’re not one of those muttering everything in Latin hexameters and trying to decide what Pliny meant about the shape of the cloud over the volcano.”

“No,” agreed Lovell. “I’m not that kind of scholar.” He felt a shiver of regret as he spoke, for now that he was going home, he began to feel his life closing in. It was true enough that he was no longer young, that he was past the age when most men thought about leaving the rigors of life to the next generation. Yet he had come to realize that he did not want to give up his adventuring in favor of reading about what others had done. He was still turning over these disquieting thoughts as he approached Rakoczy’s wagon at the end of the line.

The three-horse hitch had by far the finest animals in the line, and the six trailing after were as splendid as the three yoked to the wagon. All the horses glistened the color of old silver. The driver was part Hungarian and came from a family of horse trainers going back five generations; since Rakoczy had hired him four months earlier he refused to let anyone touch the reins but himself. His name was Geza and he clung proudly to his Hungarian accent, though he had long since forgotten the language.