Darker Jewels (41 page)

“Not without cause,” said Boris slowly. “And I cannot blame them; I share their fears. That is why I want to strengthen our alliances in Europe, so that we will not be without friends. Nikita Romanovich claims that to deal with foreigners is to invite invaders, but I cannot agree with him, not if the treaties are reasonable ones, made by reasonable men.” He cocked his head in the direction of Vasilli Shuisky and his brother Dmitri. “And there are those who will take any advantage offered them. They have claims of birth, and rank. For all that I try to keep—” He interrupted himself. “Maxim Sevastyanovich Khorsky,” he called to one of the lesser boyars who was about to leave the Reception Hall. “There is food prepared for all of you. No one has to leave, no one will go hungry.”

Khorsky ducked his head appreciatively. “I will be certain everyone understands,” he said, and started down the long line of brilliandy clad boyars, pausing to speak to them every dozen paces or so.

“You will join us?” Boris suggested.

“Sadly, no,” said Rakoczy. “I fear I would not be welcome.”

“And besides, you do not dine in company,” said Boris bluntly. “Or did you suppose I had not noticed.” He saw hesitation in Rakoczy’s manner. “I was not sure at first, for it appeared that circumstances worked against you, while Ivan VasiUievich lived. But I have watched, Rakoczy, and never have I seen you eat, or drink.”

Rakoczy made a show of mock-surrender. “Very well. I admit it. You are right. I . . . prefer to eat privately. For those of my blood, dining is . . . much too personal to perform where others can see. We are very private in our habits.” He stared down at his ruby signet ring. “I do not intend to give offense.”

“Nor have you, not to me,” said Boris.

There was a softening in Rakoczy’s face, something at the comer of the eyes that was eloquent. “Thank you, my friend.” Boris smiled; it was a weary smile. “That does not offend me either.”

Text of a letter from Benedict Lovell to Ferenc Rakoczy, written in English.

To that most excellent representative of the Exalted King of Poland, my greetings on this day of the Feast of the Holy Deaconesses Tatiana and Prisca, as the Rus call it, or the Feast of Saint Ita as they keep it in Ireland.

I think you are correct, and English is almost certainly as safe as any coded message, for few outside this embassy and countrymen can read it, and it will put no one on the alert. What a very clever suggestion. I have taken the liberty to tell Sir Jerome of this ploy, and he approves it highly.

Recently I teamed an interesting thing from Father Symeon, who has come to explain the rites of the Orthodox Church to us: the feasts of the saints are counted in numbers of days from Christmas, not unlike the Roman calculations from Christmas to Easter. For the Russians, all the feasts save Christmas are movable feasts. And yet most of their clergy neither read nor write and few can calculate beyond ten. I have been told that there are many disputed feast days, and this does not astonish me, for surely such methods must result in many disagreements.

In regard to English ships, we have one in Novo-Khobnogory waiting out the winter, the
Katherine Montmorency,
under the command of Captain Henry Percival. Other ships are expected back in the spring, once the ice has broken up in the White Sea. If it serves your purposes I will certainty send word to Captain Percival and tell him to expect to carry cargo for you, both to England and upon his return, from there.

It is not proper that I ask this, yet I cannot help but be curious

what it is you seek to exchange with Lady Olivia. She told me before I came here that you have shared such enterprises before, and this is quite interesting to know of I suspect that whatever she wants has to do with the horses she raises. Are you planning to send a few of those silver mares? If you are, you will have to notify Captain Percival to prepare a stall or two below decks so that there will be appropriate places to carry the animals. He will not take them aboard otherwise.

It might also be prudent to inform him what you expect him to carry on the return voyage, so that you will have space reserved in the hold. Captain Percival is a wise seaman, 1 have been told, cautious and canny. It would count in your favor if you were willing to let him know what you required of him, and perhaps paid him a portion of his profit as surety.

Let me take this opportunity to thank you for lending me those four books. They have been most useful to me, although where you found the manuscript of
Huon de Bordeaux
I cannot guess, nor the Latin comedy which I cannot believe came from the pen of a German nun. Who is this Roswitha of Gandersheim? Surety the name was used in jest. The Latin, as you warned me, is worse than most, and some of the lyrics appear to be in a dialect of German, that is true. I believe you have uncovered a very clever conceit, and when I have leisure, I will do what I can to discover more about the comedy.

I am sorry to say that I have not been able to discover if there is any truth in the tale that the Metropolitan of Moscovy has within his possession a Testament of Saint Luke in the Greek language that—according to what has been hinted—was unit- ten during the life of Saint Paul. I haw asked Father Symeon on several occasions, and all he will reveal is that such a manuscript was entrusted to the Metropolitan shortly before Constantinople was conquered by the Turks. He said that such a treasure would be in the Czar’s chapel in the Cathedral of the Annunciation, if it actually exists at aU. Since no one enters there but the Czar, perhaps you could persuade Feodor to tell you, because of the bells you made for him. I was told that he takes your bells ivith him when he enters that chapel to pray, so perhaps he will provide an answer on behalf of your gift.

The donations Sir Jerome has offered the Czar have not been welcomed as your has been. I had occasion to send eight glass goblets on behalf of the Norwich Weaver’s Guild, to encourage trading wool for cloth. I have been told that the Czar presently dropped one of the goblets, whereupon it broke; one of the pieces cut Feodor’s hand. Since then he has refused to touch them and has ordered that they be kept locked in a chest so that they cannot break again.

According to what reports have come from Germany, the winter has been especially fierce in the south of Bohemia and Hungary. The snows have been deeper and it is expected that it will take longer for roads into Europe to be passable. Therefore it may be that we will sail from Novo-Kholmogory as soon as wagons break through from Praha, for the winter north ofMos- covy, although it is severe, is no worse than it is in most years, or so we have been led to understand by our English sailors and the Russian traders with whom we deal.

Sir Jerome bids me extend his thanks for the maps you have provided. We have done as you suggested and hidden them: the Court would condemn us if they knew we had them, as they would you, for the same reason. For these Rus, to possess a map is to declare yourself a spy.

Sadly, I have not been able to speak with Father Krabbe. It seems that Father Pogner has ordered him to remain within the embassy. His distrust of you continues to increase, does it not? It annoys me that he will listen to none of the foreign mission in this regard. Sir Jerome taxed him with his behavior not long ago, describing the new limitations recently imposed upon foreigners as the result of Father Pogner’s overt actions against you. Father Pogner is convinced the restrictions are the order of Nikita Romanov and have nothing to do ivith him.

On the excuse to return these books and to borrow more, I will give myself the pleasure of calling upon you in four days’ time, at mid-afternoon. With the many assurances of my friendship and the appreciation of the ambassador, Sir Jerome Horsey, I am

Your servant to command, Benedict Lovell of the English Embassy at Moscovy by my own hand

2

Those who waited in line had red, chapped faces from the sleety snow pelting across the Beautiful Market Square: the moat around the Kremlin was so deeply frozen that twenty mounted men could not break through it; the sky overhead was the same color and appearance as the ice. On this, the Feast of Saint Porphyry of Gaza, several hundred worshippers waited to pray at the tomb of Vasilli the Holy Fool in the Saint’s honor. After a week of blizzards, the weather had calmed somewhat, bringing the people of Moscovy out of their houses.

“Are you certain that the Metropolitan will not be offended?” asked Rakoczy as he strode along beside Boris Feodorovich Godunov. “I am not of your faith.”

“Well,” Boris said very deliberately, his shuba held tightly across his chest, his gloves lined with ermine. He breathed out a cloud of steam. “You are a Christian—”

“Of a sort,” Rakoczy murmured. He wore a black Polish wilc- zura with the wolf-fur hood up.

“You have suffered at the hands of the Turks, and you are here with the embassy of a Christian king. It is senseless to abide by the rantings of one Roman priest. You are known to the people of Moscovy as a worthy foreigner, an exile for your religion.” Boris acknowledged the greeting of a wealthy merchant with a conspicuous wallet slung over his shuba. “That man, Nikolai Sobrimovich Donetskoy, he vouches for your reputation, and not just in Russia but throughout the world. He would not refuse you entrance to the Virgin’s Cathedral any more than the priests would.”

“For my blood,” Rakoczy observed with a faint, ironic light in his dark eyes. “And my reputation.”

“Certainly. Every man in Moscovy who fought the Tartars twelve years ago respects both. This is Moscovy. The disapproval of that Polish Jesuit has no currency here. You have been favored by Czar Ivan and Czar Feodor. Therefore I can see no reason for the Metropolitan to deprive you of the comforts of Mass. You are respectful; you were married in a Kremlin cathedral in the company of the Czar. You honor the ikons. Your wife is known for her charities, and you have made donations in her name to the honor of the saints. Besides, no one has protested before. There is no reason to protest now.” He said it loudly enough to be easily overheard, which was his intention.

“Except for Father Pogner,” Rakoczy corrected him. “He has attempted to bar me from Mass again.”

“So we have been informed.” Boris nodded, his heavy boots so crusted with snow that he had to stop and kick at them several times. “From Catholic Mass. We are Orthodox.” When he resumed trudging toward the gigantic Cathedral of the Virgin of the Intercession with its cluster of dissimilar cupolas, he made certain that Rakoczy was right beside him, clearly in his company. He paid no attention to the four Guardsmen trailing behind him, preferring Rakoczy’s escort to theirs. “If the weather remains clear we will set men to work removing the snow here.”

Rakoczy accepted this shift of subject, knowing that if this ploy of Boris’ did not force Father Pogner to make certain concessions, he would find another tactic. “I have been told that the signs are for more storms.” They were nearing the Cathedral—a tremendous Virgin’s star of eight points, with the chapel for Vasilli the Holy Fool making the number of stellations nine— when a slow-moving sleigh drew up to them, the horses steaming as they strained at their bowed yokes. As Rakoczy heard his name called, he turned. “Father Krabbe,” he said, bowing a little to the passenger riding behind the coachman. “I trust I see you well.”

Father Krabbe looked deeply worried, and it took him a short while to frame an answer. “I have been to your house, Rakoczy. I wanted to speak with you.”

Boris stopped walking and gave Father Krabbe his attention, as well.

“Is something the matter?” asked Rakoczy with some concern, as much for the public place as any message the priest might have for him. “There is no bad news from King Istvan, is there?”

“No.” Father Krabbe looked around the square. “That is, there may be, but I know nothing of it. No. It
is...
nearer to Moscovy.” He once again gave the square an uneasy, quick glance.

“Something to do with the embassy?” Rakoczy suggested.

“Yes,” said Father Krabbe at once. “Yes, that’s it.” He stared at Boris, faltering a third time. “But I should
not...
I should not burden you with these concerns now.” He signaled to the coachman. “I will call later.”

“Tomorrow? Tonight? When?” Rakoczy inquired, doing his best to appear interested but unconcerned.

“Tomorrow,” said Father Krabbe at once. “We celebrate Mass at six and ten. I will come before mid-day. Unless,” he added as an afterthought, “there is a storm. In that case I will come as soon as the weather clears. I’ll send someone to tell you . . . when it is possible. Not Yuri, of course.”

“No, not Yuri,” Rakoczy agreed.

“But someone. Soon. It is . . . not urgent,
but.
.

“Needing attention?” Rakoczy suggested. “I am grateful for this . . . information. I’ll expect you at your convenience.” He watched as the coachman signaled his three-horse team to move off again.

Boris shaded his eyes, looking into the sleet as the sleigh turned at the squat, drum-shaped Chapel of Athanazius the Atho- nite. “It will not end, you know, until one of you is gone from Moscovy.”

“Father Krabbe or I?” Rakoczy inquired with amusement, deliberately misunderstanding him.

“Father Pogner or you, as well you know,” said Boris daunt- ingly. “He is your enemy, Rakoczy, as surely as the Turks are. You should never forget that: you may be certain he never does.”

“You make too much of it,” said Rakoczy with more indifference than he actually felt; long experience had taught him to avoid entangling his friends in his strife if he could. “He may despise me, but he has a duty to King and Church, and he will not let his petty dislike endanger their trust.” He knew as he said it that Boris was not convinced.

“I pray you are right,” said Boris as he reached the entrance to the cathedral and paused to bless himself before stepping inside.

Rakoczy crossed himself as well. “Do you ever wonder,” he said softly, “why God wishes signs like these made? Is it to remind Him, or to remind us, do you suppose?”