Darker Jewels (11 page)

A dark-eyed, handsome courtier whose features had an angular, Asiatic cast, a man of some privilege from his demeanor, approached Ivan and whispered something to him. Rakoczy watched the courtier with interest, noticing how skillfully he dealt with the unpredictable Czar.

“Godunov is right,” announced Ivan when his daughter-in- law’s brother moved away. “They are deserving. It is an honorable greeting they bring. The ritual must be done or there will be disgrace for the Court.” He sighed deeply. “And I have so much to answer for.” Reluctantly he stepped forward and placed Ra- koczy’s hands between his own. “God protect you in Holy Russia.”

Rakoczy ducked his head and murmured “Amen” before looking up at Czar Ivan. He said nothing, but he stared directly into Ivan’s large, troubled eyes, where madness flickered.

Ivan repeated this gesture and phrase with each of the priests, and then stepped back with apparent relief. He clapped his hands and two guards carried a large basin of water to him, holding it while he washed his hands. Another servant brought him a towel. When he had finished drying, he gave the towel back to the servants and held his clean hands up for the Court to see.

Czaieivich Feodor whooped once, but otherwise the Court was silent.

Then Ivan did something unexpected, and the men gathered in the reception hall of the Granovitaya watched in appalled fascination as the Czar turned back and approached Rakoczy again, moving as if propelled by forces beyond resistance, reaching out to touch the silver-winged pectoral he wore.

“Czar?” Rakoczy asked, aware that this was a break with custom and ritual.

Ivan touched the cabochon stone that served as the heart of the eclipse. He stared as his fingertips caressed the polished gem; his middle and first finger lingered on the stone. There was a passion in his eyes now, an emotion beyond mere covetousness or greed. At last he looked at Rakoczy. “I do not recognize this jewel,” he said very quietly.

Rakoczy answered in a low voice. “It is a sapphire, Great Czar.”

“A sapphire?” Ivan took a step back, pulling his hand away as if the gem could bum him. “But it is black, glowing black.”

“There are black sapphires, Great Czar,” said Rakoczy, and gambled, adding, “Would you like one?”

Ivan reached out for Rakoczy’s pectoral, and was shocked when he drew back. “Is there a price?”

“Not on this,” said Rakoczy. “It is very old, and of my . . . kin. I could not part with it without disgrace.” He had made it as a gift for Ranegonde, nearly seven hundred years ago. He paused in the hope that Ivan would continue to listen. “But I have others, and you may choose the one that pleases you the most, if that would be satisfactory.”

“How many do you have?” demanded Ivan, his face working with fierce emotions.

“Eleven, as I recall. Not all are as dark as this; they range from darkest blue to black.” He paused. “I have emeralds and amethysts and rubies as well. And black pearls.” This last was a dangerous admission, for many believed that black pearls were malign and predicted mourning.

“I will see them,” Ivan declared, looking around toward Boris Godunov. “Arrange it. I will see this prince in my study. And you.” He rounded on the Jesuits, one hand extended, pointing. “You will assist the prince. He is the deputy of your king. You will follow his orders as if they were the orders of your King Istvan.” He fell silent, staring at Rakoczy’s pectoral as if caught in a trance. “Eleven dark sapphires. And emeralds. And amethysts. You will bring them all. Including the black pearls.”

There was a slight, shocked sound from the Court but no one dared to question Ivan’s orders. The whispers would begin later, when the Czar could not hear them.

Ivan clapped his hands to signal that this audience and reception had ended, and before the nobles could rise and bow to him, he strode down the length of the reception hall, his step as firm and energetic as it had been twenty years ago. His escort of soldiers hurried to keep up with him.

The susurrus of distressed whispers began as soon as Ivan was out of the Palace of Facets; in their positions at the front of the hall, Rakoczy and the Jesuits were left scrupulously alone.

And then Boris Godunov came up to Rakoczy, bowing slightly. “They are upset because the Little Father did not wash his hands after he touched your sapphire,” he explained, and motioned to the Jesuits to rise. “Two years ago he would not have forgotten.”

Rakoczy got to his feet and studied Boris’ clever face. “I take it that some of the nobility will consider it a bad omen?”

Boris watched the Court, the gold-clad men beginning to mill, most of them refusing to look at the Polish embassy. He chose his words carefully. “Between that and the black pearls, I’m afraid so.”

Text of a letter from Father Milan Krabbe to Archbishop Antonin Kutnel, found by servants and stolen.

In the Name of the Trinity, my greetings to you, Excellency, and my prayers and blessings in all your endeavors.

It is now two months since the embassy has arrived in Mos- covy, and we continue to be shunned as if we brought plague with us. The nobility here are deeply superstitious, and they are convinced that we have tainted the Czar with our presence, and so avoid us. Only the English embassy are willing to talk with us for more than a few minutes. The clergy are not averse to discussing passages of Scripture, but they will not consider that any

of their writings are incorrect, and take every opportunity to question our Latin rites. We are constantly being told that we will shortly be given better reception by the nobility, but thus far it has not proved to be the case. There is one note of encouragement: Rakoczy of Saint-Germain has been given some welcome, and he is fast becoming the confidant of Czar Ivan. Father Pogner has insisted that Rakoczy must convince Ivan to extend his welcome to all of us, but thus far he has had no success.

The people here have learned to make houses that can be assembled from prepared lumber in less than a week. A man need only say the number of rooms desired and state the sizes they are to be and the lengths of lumber are sent to the building site. Iam told there are many fires in this cold, wooden city, and the houses of this design are necessary if the people of the city are not to freeze. The houses are heated with angular, enameled stoves that provide much heat but occasionally lead to fires, hence the need for the prepared-to-assemble houses in the first place.

Rakoczy already has a house in the district near the goldsmiths, notfar from the Kremlin, and he has set about decorating it in the Russian style, earning him the favor of such nobles as the Shuisky cousins and Boris Godunov, who is reckoned to be the man who will serve as regent for Feodor, should he ever become Czar; Godunov is not the favorite of the nobles here, for all the Czar approves him. I am informed that his mother is Tartar and that is sufficientfor many of the high-born to suspect him of treachery. I have told Rakoczy of this, but he has said that it has no bearing on our mission, for Godunov is the Czar's right hand and therefore our most worthwhile ally.

You had said that among the Orthodox there are no Orders as we have them within the Church. They have but one Rule of Brotherhood for monks, one rule for priests and higher authorities. A few have said they believe that Orders are divisive and are not in the spirit of the teaching of Christ. While I could see some reason in such a position, little as I agree with it, I was distressed to learn that few priests and fewer monks can read, or are encouraged to learn. They tell the Gospels as they tell the stories of their Prince Igor and the long-dead princes of Kiev. When I questioned the wisdom of this, I was informed that reading ivould inevitably lead to controversy, and for that reason it was

discouraged in favor of memorizing Scripture and repeating it in faithful humility. Many priests here believe that if we Catholics did not read, we Jesuits would not exist. They fault us for counting the yearsfrom the birth of Christ: the Orthodox Church reckons their calendar from the beginning of the world, which they believe to have been more than seven thousand years ago. They claim that to do otherwise is to place Christ above God the Father in importance, which is heresy. When I asked for a clarification, they promised to have Father Grigori explain it to me, although this has not occurred yet.

To such an end I must report that I have found few books to send you but a handful in Greek. I have been informed that the writings of Russians are kept for Rus and not for those outside her borders. It is as if they fear their thoughts would wither and die transported from their native soil. When I mentioned this to Rakoczy, hoping that he would be able to assist me, he remarked that ideas were not the only things that withered without their native soil. I am still not certain that he spoke in earnest, or in jest.

All that you have heard of the central market of Moscovy held in the square immediately outside the main gates of the Kremlin pales when the thing itself is seen. There is abundance from the fields that I have never seen in Bohemia or Poland—there are berries and melons in quantity here that are wholly unknown to me, but which these Moscovites treasure. There is a profusion of apples and other fruits brought long distances. Grain of many kinds is offered at the market, and blooming flowers. They even bring fish, alive, in great wagons that drip salt water from the Black Sea to Moscovy. There are linens and silks for sale, although the finest fabrics are not displayed here; only the nobility are permitted to purchase them. Aside from knives and axes, few weapons are sold, for such enterprise is carefully supervised by the army. There is wood everywhere, from the lumber for the houses I have mentioned to carved chairs and cabinets to scraps to bum for heat. And outside the eastern gates of the city the market for livestock flourishes. They say that on a busy market day there will be as many as five thousand horses sold.

We have as yet met very few noble Russian women. They are kept secluded for the most part, although there are occasions when they appear before the Court to mark events of special importance. Peasant women have few restrictions upon them and they may be encountered in the marketplace and working beside their husbands in shops. But boyarinas and other well-born ladies live much the way the women of the hareem do, in their private quarters, under strict supervision. There are constant rumors of rivalries and crimes, but I have not heard a direct accusation made against anyone. The women remain a mystery. Yet on those occasions when they are present at Court, it is considered essential by every noble household that one of their women attend, for to do otherwise, the family so unrepresented would give offense to the Czar. Therefore most noblemen living in Moscovy have at least two or three of his female relatives in residence with him against such occasions. We have been told that most of these noblewomen excel in needlework.

The English have shown us some hospitality and we have been happy to accept their invitations, all of being strangers in this country. They are a disrespectful lot, toasting their Queen’s Grace with a freedom that would lose a Pole his head. Still, I find I am in accord ivith Rakoczy in this instance and if I am not permitted to learn from one set of foreigners, I will avail myself of the opportunity to learn from another. It may be that when this embassy is recalled, we will return with more knowledge of the English than the Pus.

It has been very warm, and the air is close. Often there are thunderstorms at night, and we have heard that when these occur the Czar cries aloud to Heaven for redemption. There have been two minor fires caused by lightning, but they were quickly put out and already new houses are rising on the ashes of the burned ones. The worst of this weather is the vermin
—
there is nothing to stop the bites, the constant itching, and the unwholesome feeling that comes with the biting. There may be hermits who regard lice as seals of purity and mortification of the flesh, but I cannot believe that God intended His servants to be the supper for such vileness. I have decided to accept Ra- koczy’s offer of a tonic to use against the lice. He rid me of putrescence in my lungs—perhaps he will banish the lice as well.

In all duty and with the assurance of my devotion to you and to the One True Catholic Church and Our Savior Jesus Christ. By my own hand in acquiescence to your instructions.

Milan Krabbe, Society of Jesus August 9, 1583, at Moscovy in the Goldsmiths’ Quarter

6

Rothger stood at the head of the stairs blocking the door to Rakoczy’s alchemical study; his austere features, catching the light of oil-lamp flame, were creased with concern. Around him the large house was silent but for the distant sigh of the wind and the sound of night-hunting birds.

As he started up the flight, Rakoczy glanced at his manservant and shook his head, saying with a sardonic smile, “Were you worried, old friend?”

Rothger’s silence was answer enough.

“You needn’t be concerned,” said Rakoczy as he climbed slowly upward, his action revealing that his black woolen kon- tush was tom at the sleeve and a second rent ran from his hip-slung belt to the hem, a handsbreadth below his knees.

“It is near dawn,” said Rothger. He did not mention the state of Rakoczy’s clothes.

“Yes. Yes, I know,” said Rakoczy softly, and sank down on the stairs about half-way to the top. “And I said I would return before Vigil prayers, which are long past.” He patted the Dutch watch hidden in his tom sleeve as he pulled off his fur hat and raked his small hand through the short, dark waves before rubbing the back of his neck. Gradually he straightened up. “Don’t upbraid me; I’ve done enough of that for both of us.” The light of the lamp shone on the clean line of his left brow and cheek, the line of his strong, angled nose, the left side of his upper lip; otherwise his face was in shadow.

Rothger came down a few steps. “I was troubled.”

Rakoczy nodded. “So was I.” He braced his elbows on the stair above him and leaned back, facing down into the darkness. The tread pressed against his waist. “It was . . . more difficult tonight.”