Darker Jewels (20 page)

As soon as the roads are passable and Hrabia Zary is ordered to depart, it is my intention to inform Istvan Bathory and Pope Gregory of your actions and to seek redress for the humility you bring on this mission, on Poland and the Catholic Church.

Casimir Pogner

Society of Jesus January 9th, by the reformed calendar, in the Year of Grace 1584.

1

Blizzards had howled over Moscovy for more than a week but with the morning of the wedding the sky had cleared, showing a world so cold that the brilliance of sunlight made it seem the sky was in danger of cracking. Wind as penetrating as blades cut through the stout wooden walls of the houses of Moscovy, and smoke from the thousands of chimneys was quickly swiped away. Peasants set to clearing the Beautiful Market Square between the Cathedral of the Virgin of the Intercession and the tomb of the Holy Fool Vasilli and the Savior Gate of the Kremlin went to their work muffled in shubas as engulfing as snowdrifts, yet even then the cold ate through the heavy sheepskin and gnawed at their bones.

Within the Kremlin priests and monks labored in the Cathedral of the Dormition, trying to put the gorgeous royal church to rights in time for the Nuptial Mass which was scheduled to start in late afternoon. Sweet evergreen boughs had been tied around the pillars and were strewn on the floor; incense perfumed the air.

At the ikon of the Virgin of Vladimir, the Czar himself lay prostrate, repeating prayers that begged for mercy. Occasionally he raged at the Holy Mother, demanding that she use her influence to gain him some redemption before his death. His heavy silken kaftan was stained and threadbare from his long hours of lying prone before this ikon when he was not in the Czar’s Chapel of the Annunciation Cathedral, fifty steps away from the Cathedral of the Dormition.

Yaroslav waited a short distance away, fretting as he watched over his charge. He crossed himself from time to time and whispered a few words to the ikons, hoping that the Virgin would be able to hear him over Ivan’s endless supplications.

Before the second Mass of the day, Father Simeon approached Yaroslav, pulling him aside for a moment. “We must have access to”—he indicated the area where the Czar lay—“the whole of the place, if we are to perform the wedding as well as the regular Masses here today.”

“Of course,” said Yaroslav, and went to urge Ivan to go to the Annunciation Cathedral for the rest of his petitions.

Father Simeon crossed himself as he watched the Czar being led away. “May God be merciful,” he said, then hurried to join the others as they readied the altar.

Out in the shattering sunlight that turned the ice to diamonds, Ivan shaded his eyes. “God is warning me, showing me the way,” he said to Yaroslav. “He is sending His angels to guide me.”

“Yes, Little Father,” said Yaroslav as he motioned for the Czar’s armed guards to accompany them.

A short distance away, in the palace of Vasilli Shuisky, Anastasia had just arrived with Galina Alexandrevna Shuiskaya-Kosh- kina and her daughter, Xenya Evgeneivna. For once the women were not taken directly to the terem, but were led into the study of their host.

Vasilli accepted the women’s deep reverences without any more formal acknowledgment than a wave of the hand. He stood back and inspected Xenya, his mouth pursed in distaste. “Well,” he said at last, “you’re too thin and too pale, but there’s not much we can do about it now. Have my wife and her women tend to your hair and face. We can’t do anything about your body, but they can make your face more satisfactory.” He indicated a carved wooden box sitting on his trestle table. “Your bridegroom has very properly sent you a gift, a necklace of . . .moonstones set in silver.” He said the last with puzzlement, for these milky, luminous jewels were not often seen in Russia and rarely given as wedding gifts. Pearls were considered the most acceptable jewels for women. “He is a foreigner, as you already know. You will wear it, of course.”

Xenya tightened her hands into fists. “Of course.”

Galina, seeing the expression in her daughter’s pale brown eyes, tried to avert any unpleasantness. She moved a little nearer to Xenya and attempted to signal to her. “She is very nervous, Vasilli, my fond friend.”

“That is because I would rather not marry,” said Xenya in a voice that was as clear and steady as her mother’s was tremulous.

“For your guardian angel’s sake, girl,” said Anastasi solid- tously, “think of what you are saying. You are going to be married. All things considered, you ought to be on your knees in gratitude, both to your kinsman Vasilli and to the Virgin for delivering you from disgrace.”

“If the Virgin wanted to deliver me from disgrace, she should have done something twelve years ago,” said Xenya defiandy. Her large honey-colored eyes filled with tears, which she dashed impatiently away. “Oh, I am resigned to this. I do not wish to marry, but I will. You needn’t fear I will say something to remind the Court of my shame.”

Galina pressed her hand to her lips to keep from speaking. She was a once-beautiful woman who had found a certain security in its wreckage and her widowhood. Of all the things she had learned to protect herself, silence was the most valuable. She prayed her daughter would be wise and follow her example.

“No more of that, girl,” said Anastasi to Xenya; his tone was light but the set of his mouth demanded compliance.

“You are not to say anything,” Vasilli warned her. “Just as your mother has ordered you, you are to say nothing. You have accepted our story for a dozen years, and you will endorse it to your grave or you will pay a higher price than you know. You will not only bring black shame on yourself, you will forever destroy the memory of your father, and the family will not be able to escape the stain of his sin or yours. We have succeeded in saving your reputation thus far, but if you break silence now it would defile the Shuisky name and you might well be banished.”

Xenya folded her arms. She was not yet dressed in the magnificent wedding sarafan Anastasia had provided as his gift, in white and gold to suit her foreign bridegroom; her garments were plain and utilitarian, suited to the work she did with the poor each day. She made no apology for her appearance but regarded Prince Vasilli directly. “What do I tell to this foreigner who is to be my husband, and who wants me pale as a corpse?”

“You will think of something, if he has any questions to put to you. If he does not, you need tell him nothing,” said Galina quickly, deeply grateftil to have a suggestion to offer. “I have several notions that might account for ... for the clean sheets.”

“I don’t want to know, whatever you decide upon,” said Vasilli with distaste.

Galina made a reverence to Vasilli and Anastasi, then nudged her daughter’s arm for her to do the same. “We are thankful to you, august kinsman, for sparing Xenya the stigma of spinster- hood.”

Vasilli dismissed the notion. “It was more Anastasi’s doing than mine. Indeed, he was the one who suggested the match to the Czar; all I did was endorse it. But I am pleased you are aware of how great an achievement this is.” He looked critically at Xenya once again. “They will give you more color when they paint your face, but it would help if you made some effort to smile. If you were to wear red, that would help, for it is so splendid a color that you could not help but smile.” If he had expected to cajole Xenya this way, he was disappointed.

With a sudden toss of her head, Xenya reached out and grabbed the wooden box. “Let me see this, since the foreigner sends it to me.”

Anastasi and Vasilli exchanged uneasy glances as Xenya opened the box, paying no heed to the soft protests Galina made. Xenya pulled the necklace from its housing and flung the box aside, stretching the necklace out between her hands. It was nearly as fragile as lace, an interlocking pattern of raised wings, with moonstones where they intersected. There were more than forty of the jewels and the necklace itself was glossy with shine. Xenya, who had been ready to scorn it, now stared in fascination, her face softening as she lifted the necklace higher. “Where did he get this? There is nothing like it. No Russian silversmith made this.” She turned the necklace, letting the light gleam.

“He claims he made it himself, as part of his alchemical skills,” said Anastasi, making it plain that he did not believe this.

“It is lovely, very lovely,” said Galina, seizing on the one thing Xenya had shown any favor for in regard to her marriage. “A wonderful gift for you, my daughter.”

Xenya rounded on her mother. “Unfortunately, I cannot have the necklace without the man,” she said, and added to Vasilli, “We might as well get this done, since you are all determined to have it.”

Vasilli shrugged and clapped for a servant. “Take my kinswomen to the terem. My wife is waiting for them.”

Not far from the Shuisky palace, Boris Godunov had just come to the reception hall of his palace to greet his guest, his wife

Marya Skuratova for once accompanying him; she was noticeably pregnant and moved with great care.

“How fine an occasion to welcome you to my house,” Boris assured Rakoczy as his guards escorted the Transylvanian to the reception hall.

Rakoczy bowed in the Italian manner as deeply as his heavy wolf-fur kontush would permit and indicated his manservant, saying, “My Rothger has my wedding clothes. If you will direct him to the place he is to prepare them?” Then he managed a quick, fleeting smile. “What a churlish thing to say to someone who has opened his home to me. I ask you to think of it as an oversight, brought about by my nerves.”

“You are nervous?” asked Boris in some surprise; he did not present his wife, for that would have been insulting to her since Rakoczy was not Boris’ kinsman. “You haven’t the look of it.”

Rakoczy nodded once. “But I am. Very. You see, I have never been married.”

“And you are ten years my senior, or so I judge.” Boris’ black eyes shone with genuine sympathy; he was thirty-two, which was old for a man to marry. “It is the fate of the exile, I fear. All the more reason to rejoice in your good fortune here.” He signaled to one of his servants. “Take the Hrabia’s houseman to the room we have prepared for my guest. Be certain the mirrors are clean.”

“Mirrors.” Rakoczy could not keep the irony from his chuckle. “I think Rothger and I can manage without them.” It had been more than three thousand five hundred years since he had seen his reflection in any surface; not even clear water could show him his face. “But thank you,” he added.

“Do you practice humility this way?” asked Boris as two of the servants led Rothger away, one of them carrying the two large cases Rakoczy had brought with him. “Let us drink to your bride, and to the happiness of your marriage,” said Boris enthusiastically.

Rakoczy held up his hand, his expression rueful. “My good friend, for all the kindness you offer me, I appear always to refuse. Do not let me take drink now. I am certain that it would not be wise for me to fog my wits; they tell me the Nuptial Mass is almost two hours long. I will need to keep my head.”

Boris laughed outright. “Always so prudent, you foreigner.

You must learn to be more Russian now, and forget your circumspection. You must embrace life, my friend, clasp all of it to your breast and hold it fast, though it eats the heart out of you for your pains.”

“I must,” said Rakoczy enigmatically.

With a laugh Boris gestured his concession. “Very well. But when the wedding is over and you are feasting, then you and I will drink until the stars wobble in the sky.”

“Certainly,” said Rakoczy at once, hiding his inner trepidation with a bow that also freed him of his heavy fur cloak. As he draped this over his arm, he said, “And if I am to be ready for the wedding, I fear I must shortly turn myself over to my manservant. I fear it will take time to dress.” This was not wholly the truth, but he wanted to escape Boris’ cordial probing.

Boris glanced at his wife, then asked, “Tell me, is it the custom for those who marry in your country to wear white?”

“Occasionally, yes, if it is a first marriage,” said Rakoczy; he chose his words carefully now, sensing that Boris was probing for something more.

“Then you will wear white, too?” It would have been intolerably rude to ask this of a Russian, but Boris excused himself with the certainty that a Russian would be wearing proper red for his wedding.

“White edged in black, with rubies,” said Rakoczy, adding, “To honor my blood.”

This was a satisfactory explanation to Boris and he rubbed his hands together vigorously. “The Czar will approve when I explain it to him.” He signaled for more servants. “Well, then, into your clothes. I will tend to the Little Father before the Mass begins, so there ought to be no unpleasantness. If he is not told of your plans, he might decide to take offense that you do not wear red.” He hesitated. “You have been honored twice,” he warned Rakoczy as the alchemist started out of the room.

“Honored? How is that, Boris Feodorovich?” asked Rakoczy.

“Czar Ivan has ordered three of his hymns to be sung, in addition to the Nuptial Mass, two in veneration of the Virgin, the other an anthem of salvation.” Boris held up his hands, palms outward. “They are very good hymns, my friend, but they are very long.”

“I see,” said Rakoczy. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He was almost to the door. “And when you speak to Czar Ivan, thank him for me for so gracious a gift.”

Boris’ smile glinted. “Most assuredly.” Only when Rakoczy was out of the room did he turn to his wife and ask her opinion.

Marya considered her answer, trying to sum up her impressions. “He is astute, as you have said. But there is something about him, cherished Boris. I pray that Xenya Evgeneivna has the skill to command his affection. If she can do that, she will need fear nothing but the loss of him for the rest of her life.”

“You
are always astute,” Boris approved. “You have expressed my own thoughts, and better than I could.”

When Rakoczy came into the chamber Boris had given them, Rothger had most of Rakoczy’s clothes laid out. He silently took the plain mente from Rakoczy, then waited for the dolman.

“I was thinking this morning as we rode here,” said Rakoczy as he pulled off the dolman and unfastened his leggings from his under-belt, “that it has been a long time since I have worn white.”