Darker Jewels (21 page)

“The last time was in Fiorenza,” said Rothger, giving the city its older pronunciation: it was now more commonly called Firenza.

“Nearly a century; I claimed Hungarian alliance then, too, and to be my own nephew.” He stood still for a moment, half-naked, his dark eyes distant, recalling the flames and Estasia.

“My master?” Rothger prompted.

Rakoczy blinked. “Oh. Yes. You’re right.” He finished undressing, standing naked long enough for Rothger to sponge and dry and perfume his body, then gratefully slipped into the fine black silken camisa he would wear under the white. As he fastened the front lacing, he said, “What sort of woman do you suppose this woman is?”

“Her father was killed when the Mongols last attacked the city,” said Rothger. “She and her mother have been living with Anastasi Shuisky ever since. They say she is over twenty.”

“In other words, they are poor relations,” said Rakoczy. “That much was clear. But that tells me almost nothing about Xenya Evgeneivna. I’m still not certain why Czar Ivan selected her.” He gave a short sigh. “I wish I knew something useful about the woman. As it is—” He took the silver-shot white leggings and drew them on, securing them to his underbelt.

“Czar Ivan was probably persuaded by Anastasi Shuisky,” said Rothger, holding out the glossy white dolman edged in black and closed with black lacings.

“Very likely,” agreed Rakoczy. “But who is she?”

Rothger took the ankle-length mente from its case; it was ermine and the front was studded with rubies in the pattern of Rakoczy’s device—the eclipse with raised wings displayed. “This will complement their two-headed Byzantine eagle,” he remarked, only his pale-blue eyes revealing his amusement.

“Let us hope,” said Rakoczy, and looked for the white boots he would wear as he held out his hand with the ruby signet ring. “At least it complements this.”

An hour later the Court began to assemble at the Cathedral of the Dormition, most trying to get as near to the golden Coronation Throne as possible without appearing more interested in the Czar’s favor than in the ranks upon ranks of gilded ikons soaring to the ceiling. The afternoon sun slanted in through three windows in the enormous frescoes filling the entire west wall depicting the Last Judgment. Hero-saints glowed on the pillars and a forest of candles blazed before the Virgin of Vladimir.

There was a flurry of activity as Czar Ivan arrived with the Czareivich Feodor in tow; the moon-faced young man was beaming, having been promised an opportunity to ring bells after the wedding was over. Their Guards stationed themselves around Ivan as he went from ikon to ikon, prostrating himself and praying. Feodor followed after his father, smiling gently, his brow encircled by the coronet Rakoczy had given him.

Father Simeon returned to the Cathedral, now vested in a pearl-sewn omophorion instead of his usual black habit, and because this was a wedding, he was crowned with a pearl-and- agate-studded kamelaukion. He could not prostrate himself before Ivan without profaning his garments, so he made a deep reverence instead. “Little Father, the Nuptial Mass ought to begin. What do you want me to do? Shall I signal a delay?” Czar Ivan looked around, his blue-green eyes dazed. “No,” he said after a short hesitation. “No. The wedding must take place, to honor the jewels I have received. Now the foreigner will receive a Russian jewel.” He laughed loudly, then struggled to his feet. “Have the bride and groom arrived?”

“Both are here,” said Father Simeon. “Their sponsors are waiting. The procession is ready.”

“Ah,” Ivan muttered, getting to his feet and moving toward the ikonostasis. “Then it must begin.” He stared around in satisfaction. “Yes, it must begin.” Slightly distracted, he made his way toward the front of the Cathedral, remarking to his amiable, slow-witted son as he went, “I have been informed they are going to wear white, like shrouds; it is the custom in Hungary or Poland or some such place.” He crossed himself twice, once for Rakoczy and once for Xenya. “May God be merciful.”

Once the Czar had reached his place of honor, the concealed choir broke forth in twelve-part harmony, extolling the mercy of God. The procession of the priests began, followed by the bride, led by her sponsor, Anastasi Shuisky; behind them came two more priests and then Boris Godunov accompanied Ferenc Rakoczy toward the ikonostasis.

This was the first sight Rakoczy had of Xenya; she was almost as tall as he, unfashionably slender, her gold-threaded white sarafan hanging in heavy gathers around her, more like a Roman stola than a Russian gown. She carried herself well. There was no way to tell much about her kokoshnik-framed face, for her cosmetics were heavily applied, making her brows black, her skin a pale golden rose, her mouth a crimson bow. Her clear, golden- brown eyes met his without flinching.

The choir soared in ecstatic praise and the priests intoned the first blessing of the couple, extolling the blessing of matrimony.

By the time the Nuptial Mass was finished, it was twilight. The Court, having stood in worship for the last three hours, was now ready for the extensive banquet that waited a short distance away in the Palace of Facets. Ably assisted by the Czareivich, the priests were ringing the Cathedral bells to celebrate the wedding.

Ivan had lingered in the Cathedral after the Court and newly married couple had left it, prostrating himself to pray at the ikonostasis before summoning his Guards to escort him from the Cathedral; the Court and the wedding party would be waiting for him in the courtyard outside, for they could not depart from there without his permission. He stepped into the frozen evening, favoring the bride with a nod of his crowned head. “God is merciful,” he announced, raising his head to indicate that the skies were still clear. And he shrank back, his features a rictus of fear.

High overhead, out of the east, a comet streamed.

Slowly, in confusion, various nobles of the Court looked up, and crossed themselves in awe, a few sinking to their knees in spite of the freezing mud and their fine clothes.

The ringing of bells grew in intensity, the air trembling with their enormous song.

“God and His martyrs!” exclaimed Boris as he caught sight of the comet. He crossed himself twice and looked at once to Rakoczy and the woman he had just married. “You cannot stay here,” he said with conviction. “Leave. Leave while you can.”

Xenya had turned away, not quite cowering but gripped by fear; Rakoczy stood looking upward, compelling curiosity in his dark, dark eyes.

“Cross yourself, fool!” shouted Boris, knowing that he could hardly be heard over the bells. He nudged Rakoczy and repeated himself.

Rakoczy nodded once and did as he was told.

Czar Ivan had fallen supine, still pointing upward at the heavens, foam on his lips as he screamed and drummed his heels on the icy Cathedral steps.

Some of the Court were praying now, their mouths moving as they stared at the comet and rocked with the swing of the bells. The priests who had performed the Nuptial Mass withdrew into the sanctuary of the Dormition, seeking the protection of then- ikons; a few of the Court followed after them.

The Czar had bitten through his lip and now his beard was spattered with blood. The crown had fallen from his head and lay like a bauble in the banked snow at the side of the Cathedral steps. His guards milled around him, most of them refusing to look at the comet while the Czar shrieked and thrashed and spasmed at their feet.

Boris leaned very close to Rakoczy. “Take your wife and leave,” he insisted. “Leave now. Who knows what the Little Father will do while he is like this? I must attend him at once. Do not put yourself in danger.” He shoved Rakoczy in the shoulder. “It’s a pity the clouds cleared, after all,” he added, then made his way toward the Czar, not looking back.

Rakoczy watched him go, then turned to his wife. “Xenya,” he said as gently as he could to be heard over the bells, “Xenya Evgeneivna, will you come with me?”

She stared at his extended hand, and the ruby signet ring. “If I must,” she said as she put her hand into his, lifting her chin as she did.

“Good,” said Rakoczy, and led the way through the growing hysteria of the Court toward Boris Godunov’s palace, where his new curtained wagon could be made ready for them. Under the baleful light of the comet, Rakoczy took his bride to his house.

Excerpt from a report by Father Milan Krabbe to Archbishop Antonin Kutnel, entrusted to Hrabia Zary.

. . .
Regarding the occasion of the marriage of Hrabia Saint- Germain to the Russian woman, the event was marred at the end by the appearance ofa great tailed star in the sky that struck all the people with dread and awe. I have been told that the Czar himself was sent into a fit at the sight of it. Because of this apparition, the banquet that was to follow the wedding did not take place and all the meats that were to be served to the Court were distributed to the poor that very night and prayers were ordered at every attar in the city of Moscovy.

It is said that the Czar has sent for Lappish witches, to have them tell what the tailed star portends. They are supposed to arrive in a matter of days, and all the Court isfilled with rumors, for you must know that among the Rus, Lapps and Finns are considered to be powerful magicians.

Because of this occurrence, Rakoczy has not been much at Court, although he has sent two magnificent amethysts to Czar Ivan for his recovery. I have heard that the Czar accepted them, but is not willing to admit Rakoczy himself to his presence. If the Lapps declare that it is not dangerous to have the Transylvanian near them, then he will be permitted to address Ivan directly once again.

I trust this will happen, for since the coming of the star, Ivan has not been willing to speak to any of us. He is certain that the presence of Catholics has lessened God’s favor for him, and therefore he is unwilling to recognize our embassy. We have been informed by Duke Anastasi Shuisky, who has somewhat befriended us, that this is certain to pass and that it will not be long before Czar Ivan realizes that he must speak either with us or with Father Possevino.

Although Father Pogner distrusts Rakoczy and believes that he has turned against King Istvan, lam not convinced this is the case. He himself told me that he had not sought the marriage

and that the Czar had required it of him, as a way to ensure a continuing supply of jewels. I have been told that Ivan has ordered other members of his Court to marry women he has chosen for them, and so I have reserved judgment in regard to this event, for it appears to me that Rakoczy never behaved as if he wanted such a union. I realize this contradicts what Father Pogner has said, but in conscience I must inform you that it may not be as it appears, and King Istvan may still have a steadfast servant in Hrabia Saint-Germain.

There was a smallfire in the Bakers’ Quarter, and it has been attributed to the tailed star, as has every misfortune since it appeared in the sky. We saw it for two nights only. Another storm blew clouds over the sky and since then the star has not been seen. Some say it has fallen to earth and others say God has recalled it to Heaven. Whether this is true, only the wisest of men can know. In the meantime, we will await the prognostications of the Lappish witches.

In regard to the wagons used to bring fish from the Black Sea, I have not yet had the opportunity to see how they are caulked, but I am told that most of them are tarred like ships and then lacquered in order to keep water within them on the long journey . . .

2

Their garments were made of wolf skin and reindeer hide and were embroidered in strips from shoulder to hem. Their boots, too, were embroidered and turned up at the toe, as did the peaks of their leather caps. Their eyes were light but their faces were Asiatic, with high, flat cheekbones and broad foreheads. There were sixty of them, ranging from youth to old age, and they refused to prostrate themselves before the Czar when the Guard escorted them into Ivan’s Golden Chamber.

In the last three weeks, Ivan had deteriorated. He had refused to bathe since the star appeared and he wore the same kaftan he had donned for the wedding. His beard and hair were a tangled

thatch and his eyes, always prominent, now seemed to start from his head. He pointed to the Lapps with his mace and demanded without ceremony that they use their powers at once to tell him when he would die.

The most senior of the witches, a man with deep seams in his face and few teeth, heard these orders without dismay. His Russian was accented strangely and the rhythm of his speech was equally strange, but he was comprehendible. “We must see into the fire,” he explained. “Let us have fire.”

“Why fire?” demanded Ivan, extending his finger and pointing at the Lappish witches. “You come to bum me to show me Hell.”

The senior witch shook his head. “We do not. Hell is your teaching, not ours.” He turned and spoke to the others, then went on, “The star was a fire in the sky. To know its meaning, we must consult fire.”

The sense of this penetrated the miasma of fear that held Ivan captive. He signaled to his Guard. “Tell them to build up a fire in front of Saint Mikhail’s. The cathedral will protect us if there is any work of Satan in this.” He gestured wildly. “Do it. Do it!”

A number of the witches chuckled at this desperate display, but they were quelled by the stares of the Guard.

“Make the fire!” howled Ivan, swinging his arms as if they were weapons.

The Guard hurried out into the courtyard, where they summoned servants to bring wood and set it alight; they worked quickly and forced the servants to hurry in order to avoid the Czar’s wrath. Ivan stayed in his Golden Chamber, his face pressed to the milky windows, staring down as his orders were carried out. He prayed constantly and would not look at the Lappish witches who crowded around him for fear of their enchantments.

When the fire at last was blazing, the senior witch signaled the rest to follow him, and they trooped down, out into the courtyard. They circled the fire, making themselves a human container for the flames. Under the watchful, apprehensive gaze of the soldiers, the witches made reverent gestures to the fire and began their slow, repetitious chant, shuffling from one foot to the other as they circled the flames, occasionally throwing bits of dried plants into it, sniffing the smoke and pointing to the way the wood broke apart.