Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
“Oh,” said Vasilli lazily, “you and I will quarrel where he can see and hear it, and he will accept what you tell him.” He placed his hands together, very satisfied.
And then Anastasi said, “And I will confess to the Patriarch—”
“The Metropolitan,” Vasilli corrected.
“The Patriarch,” Anastasi repeated with heavy emphasis, “is what he is being called now, and so I will call him that. It is only a matter of time before the Czar declares the Church in Russia to be supreme over the Church in Jerusalem. Constantinople is lost to Christians and Czar Ivan is right to call Moscovy the New Rome.” His mercurial smile lit his face. “We rise from the ashes here in Moscovy. The city bums and thrives anew. The Orthodox Church survives here, not in Jerusalem, surrounded by those who scorn Christ.” He crossed himself.
Vasilli slapped the flat of his hand on the table. “You will keep silent with such thoughts. They have no bearing on our success in this. The foreigners need not know that there is dissension in the Orthodox Church.”
“Why?” asked Anastasi, feeling a heady pleasure in speaking his mind. “It is what I know to be true, Cousin.” He came back to the table and picked up his cup to drink. “What am I to confess to the Patriarch? That you and I are at odds? I may do that with a clear soul.” He tossed off the potent visnoua and poured more. “If that confession will aid the purpose, so much the better.”
“And you will profit twice?” jeered Vasilli, his derision making Anastasi long to throttle him.
“If I may,” Anastasi admitted through clenched teeth. “As would you, in my position.” He stepped back. “I will confess tomorrow. Before the second Mass. That way the priests can gossip with the servants, and by the time the beryl is given to the Little Father, everyone will know my mind, and that will open the door to Rakoczy.” He bowed much lower than courtesy and rank demanded, delighting in the insult this offered Vasilli.
“Be careful, very careful,’’ Vasilli said softly. “You and I have the same purpose to serve now, but there may come a time when we do not.”
At this Anastasi laughed. “You need someone who can read and speak Greek as well as Latin who will serve you without deceit, with intelligence. I am the only cousin who can, save Igor, and he is no use to anyone, with his whoring and drinking; so you must have me if you will have Latin and Greek, with a few words of English now that Sir Jerome is here. You must have someone who is beholden to you, who must serve you well for his living; we both know my circumstances. Therefore I am willing to be your tool, but not your dog.” He grabbed one of the larger cups and filled it with boiling tea from the samovar.
Vasilli silently did the same. He sweetened his tea with a generous amount of honey, then scowled at Anastasi. “They say that Nikita Romanov has visited the alchemist. They say he spent an hour in his company.”
“Nikita Romanov wants to take Godunov’s place,” said Anastasi. “He intends to become the regent for Feodor Ivanovich when the Litde Father is called to God. Everyone knows it. He is too obvious to deceive such a one as the Transylvanian. We need not concern ourselves with him, or any of the Romanovs. They are nothing.” The tea was too hot to drink, but the fragrant steam helped clear away the haze of visnoua. He inhaled deeply and felt his fair cheeks flushing. “What of Grigori Nagoy? If he has invited Rakoczy to dine with him, what is he seeking?”
“The Nagoys are powerful in their way,” said Vasilli. He sipped his tea, paying no heed to the scalding of the roof of his mouth. “They will strive to gain more power.”
“They might,” said Anastasi, becoming guarded.
“If they can convince the merchants of Moscovy that their wealth lies in the west, then they will have the support they seek to strengthen them sufficiently to topple us.” He clenched his fist. “It is not acceptable that they should do this.”
“And a pity we did not think of it first,” said Anastasi in false commiseration. “We could turn it to advantage faster than they can.”
Vasilli was affronted; he felt himself sulk. “You forget what you are saying.”
“Not I. If anyone should woo the merchants, it is Shuisky,” said Anastasi, his square face suddenly very bland. “We will return to prosperity with Novgorod. Now that Ivan has brought them to heel, they should be eager to open the portals to the west for us. We have only to remind them of the slaughter that was visited on their city when they defied the Czar.”
“We are not merchants. We are Princes.” Vasilli put his hand to his shoulder as if to reassure himself that the image of Saint Ephraem of Nisbis was still there.
“I am a Duke, not a Prince,” Anastasi reminded him, laughing as if it were a joke. He drank a long, hot sip of the tea. “Excellent.”
Vasilli put his cup down and folded his arms. “If you are planning mischief, Anastasi Sergeivich, you had better abandon your stratagems or suffer for them. You know what I require you to do.”
“And I will do those things, I’ve told you so already,” said Anastasi. “I vow to serve you. Because I must.” He had the rest of his tea, watching Vasilli over the rim of the cup, his eyes bright with furious humor.
It was a short while before Vasilli trusted himself to respond. “If ever I discover this is not the case, no estate of yours, no matter how remote, will be far enough for you to escape me. Your family will be forfeit to your gamble, Cousin, all of them— wife, children, household—will answer for you. My vengeance is as sure as my arm is long.”
Anastasi put the cup back on the tray. “I would stay for more, but there is an alchemist whom I do not know well enough yet.” He bowed too deeply and backed to the door like a household servant. “Yours to command, Cousin,” he assured Vasilli before he left the room.
When he was certain Anastasi was out of his palace, Vasilli took the cup his cousin had drunk his tea from and smashed it against the end of his trestle table, swearing steadily as the thin metal crumpled under his assault.
Text of a letter from Benedict Lovell to Ferenc Rakoczy, Hrabia Saint-Germain. Written in English and Latin.
To the most excellent Count, Ferenc Rakoczy, of Saint-Germain, late of Transylvania and now attached to the embassy of King Stephen Bathory of Poland in Russia, through the good offices of introduction arranged by Madame Clemens, currently resident near Harrow, my sincerest greetings.
It is with the hope of good-fellowship that I take pen in hand to write to you as Madame Clemens recommended I do almost a year ago; your reputation, with gratitude to Madame Clemens, preceded you, and before Moscovy was dazzled by you, I had heard of your remarkable skills and talents tong before I set sail for this mostpuzzling country. Pray do not let my awkwardness in this epistle count to my discredit. If it were possible for more regular dealings, I would undertake them gladly, but given that foreigners have many restrictions upon them and spies set to watch them, I have resorted to this irregular communication, in large part because I suspect that your accomplishments are more comprehensive than the Czar and his servants realize. In England Madame Clemens assured me that your abilities are unique and without equal in the world. She informed me that you have some knowledge of English but that your Latin is almost that of a Roman of old, and for that reason I provide these two versions. Further, she ventured that you will not be put off by this proffered hand of friendship from the English, or this one Oxford scholar, in any case, though it comes improperly.
Because Madame Clemens has already provided me with your name, I take the liberty of addressing you directty instead of seeking your attention through theJesuits who are the masters of your Polish embassy. It might be otherwise if I had not her admonitions to guide me, but given the circumstances, I can see that you are remarkably suited to your position and therefore need not apply to your small escortfor protection, nor need you obtain the approbation of other high-ranking nobles in order to complete your mission. It is not required of the priests that they extend their courtesies to you. If it is not impertinent, I must tell you that I am aware of a growing friction between you and the priests of your embassy. It appears likely that they would forbid contact between us for the satisfaction of such denial, and excuse it as a stand against the Church of England. If I err in this assessment I hope you will forgive me for telling you of my
misapprehensions. Therefore I make bold to direct my attentions to you without other considerations, and I thank you in advance for those services you might well be able to extend to me and the tasks with which the Queen’s Grace has charged me. I do not believe that anything I may require will compromise your mission. All foreign missions may well benefit from the favor I ask of you.
Count Rakoczy, I ask you, for the sake of all foreigners in Russia, to address Czar Ivan on behalf of all of us. It has been said that he suspects foreigners of causing his malady, but any reasonable man must know it is not so. If the Czar is willing to listen to you, then I beg you will intercede for all of us and make it clear to Ivan that no foreigner has the strength, either of arms or magic, to bring him to such a pass as he now finds himself protecting. Neither the Poles nor the English, nor the Germans, nor even the Swedes, for that matter, are able to influence so mighty a ruler as Ivan Grosny. His fears are more phantoms than his vision of his son is, yet it is apparent that he thinks he is the victim of some mischief. With such terrors upon him he also cries aloud to Heaven to forgive him for his sin of murder; his son’s ghost is with him night and day. That is not the doing of any sorcerer or magician.
You, being an alchemist, may be able to persuade him to regard his foreign visitors with less distrust and suspicion. He appears to accept you. He has certainty shown you greaterfavor than any of the other foreign dignitaries living in Moscovy. He might be willing to hear you if you would vouchsafe to inform him of the innocence of our duties here. Ivan Grosny has long corresponded with Queen Elizabeth, and has—or so Sir Jerome has informed me—offered to enter into a pact of mutual government in exile, so that each would be assured of protection at the Court of the other if ever they were brought into danger by conspiracy and treason. With your voice to add to ours, it may be that Czar Ivan will accept our position and our obligations without his concomitant assumption of malign intention toward him. I freely acknowledge that my request is beyond the bounds of charity or the courtesy duefellow-strangers in foreign places; if there were other means at my disposal to address the Czar without enhancing his distrust of us, I would avail myself of it, but no such remedy has been discerned. Therefore I make
bold to send this, desiring that you will agree to address our plight.
With your permission I will do myself the honor of speaking to you at the banquet following your presentation tomorrow night, and I beseech you to consider what I have said toyou; withyour help we may all serve our countries and the Czar in just duly. With my prayers for your aid and my appreciation for your thoughtful decision, I remain
Your most obedient servant, ever yours to command, etc, Benedict Lovell Doctor of Philosophy, Fellow of Brasenose College, Oxford At Moscovy, October 9, 1583, by the English calendar. Carried by Nicholas Bower, secretary to the English Embassy,
with the express permission of Sir Jerome Horsey, the Ambassador
8
Snow delayed the beginning of the presentation of the beryl; all of Moscovy shivered in the first serious storm of the coming winter. From the outer wooden gates of the city to the stone walls of the Kremlin, the city moved slowly, hunched and bundled together against the razor cold of the wind, the sting of snow.
There were Guards at every step leading to the reception hall in the Palace of Facets, armed men with battle helmets in place, their Court kaftans as shiny as their weapons. Members of the Court filed upwards, their kaftans glistening gold and red, jeweled collars and tall fur hats showing the formality of the occasion. All the Court went unarmed, for to carry any weapon into the presence of the Czar could be seen as a sign of treason.
The women, brought in curtained wagons, went to the terem entrance where they were received by Czar Ivan’s current appointed wife and eunuchs, who took them to their place in the Palace of Facets. Glimpsed as they made their way from wagon to palace, these women were dressed as grandly as the men they complemented: their red silken sarafans falling from their necks to their ankles, sewn with pearls and golden thread; their outer sleeves stiff with embroidery and gems; heavy, bright cosmetics made pretty masks of their faces, which were framed in the peaked kokoshniki like halos of pearls.
Boris Godunov had shown Ferenc Rakoczy to an antechamber on the lower floor of the Granovitaya when the alchemist had arrived somewhat earlier. “It cannot begin until the Court is seated. We will be informed.”
“And you?” asked Rakoczy. “Must not you be seated then, as well?” He was dressed in full Hungarian court dress: his dolman was cloth-of-silver bordered with silver-and-red patterns of raised wings; the mente worn over it was sable with frogging in silver cording, and the high collar ended in a narrow ruff of brilliant red silk. His leggings were black, sewn with a raised wing pattern of pearls and small garnets, and his thick-soled boots were silver. He wore his single pectoral, the same circle of black sapphire framed by raised, displayed wings. There was a large ring on his first finger, a dark cabochon ruby with the same eclipse pattern incised into it. A silver coronet studded with rubies circled his head.
“I will go up ahead of you,” said Boris, using both hands to adjust the wide jeweled collar he wore. “You and your escort will—”
“My escort?” Rakoczy interrupted. “What escort is that?” He sounded nothing more than mildly curious, though he was filled with apprehension. Soldiers in this setting meant greater risks; Ivan had always been capricious, and since the killing of his son, he had become more extreme. It was not impossible that the Czar would order him killed or taken to prison after receiving his jewel.