Darker Jewels (24 page)

Because Czareivich Feodor has no aptitude for these matters, it might be ivisest if we conduct our dealings together and present what arrangements we have made to him when our agreement isfinal. Certainly you can see the benefit in such methods, for then there would be fewer delays in implementing our vari- oils plans. For the sake of prompt action we need to have as little uncertainty as is possible when the Czareivich is consulted.

By all means, let us meet again in a week when we will both have had the opportunity to reflect on our recent discussions. At that time we may arrive at ways by which we can promote the well-being of both our countries. In the meantime, let me advise you that it would not be very wise to approach Czar Ivan, unless you intend to present him with a gift on behalf of your Queen. He has allowed himself to be persuaded by the predictions of the Lappish witches and truly expects not to live beyond the eighteenth day of next month. That is still more than three weeks distant. Until that day has come and gone, he has divided himself between the luxury of his wife, the austerity of his prayers, and the comfort of his jewels. I do not think he will receive you at Court.

I regret to disappoint you, and I ask that you not allow these momentary distractions of the Czar to turn you from the goodwill you bring to Russia. May God show you favor and bring you long years of prosperity and happiness. May you thrive while you are here in Moscovy and may your return home be sweet.

Boris Feodorovich Godunov Brother-in-law to the Czareivich Feodor Ivanovich

3

Not long after midnight Rothger found Rakoczy in his alchemical laboratory, a large room that took up almost half of the second floor of his house. There were two athanors, both quite new, on the far side of the chamber and one was heating for use.

“Another jewel?” Rothger inquired, cocking his head toward the athanor.

“The Czar wants a topaz, darker than the others he has.” He shook his head once. “No jewel can protect him from his fear.”

“Because of the witches’ prediction?” asked Rothger.

Rakoczy carefully drew up one of the tall stools set at a high table, perching on it as he answered. “Not really; not entirely.” He reached for a small stack of paper and pulled it to him. “No, the prediction is not significant by itself. But the man is in agony of spirit and his body will pay the price.” He selected a stick of charcoal and began to figure the ingredients for the topaz.

“He will die,” said Rothger. His expression was distant.

“Everyone dies,” said Rakoczy, looking away from his manservant; he bent over his work. Both men spoke in Imperial Latin. “In time.”

“In time,” echoed Rothger. He was content to remain quiet while Rakoczy went on with his computations. Through the night-silent house only the grating of the icy wind made sound as it scraped through Moscovy. And when Rakoczy looked up Rothger spoke as if there had been no suspension in their conversation. “Have you been in here all evening?”

Rakoczy’s quick smile was wry. “What you mean to ask, old friend, is have I visited my wife yet? And the answer is no.” When Rothger said nothing more, he went on. “I’ve been to her chamber twice since our wedding; she might not knowingly accept what I am, but I supposed I could visit her in her sleep, as I have with others.” His dark eyes grew somber. “When she has started to respond to what her dreams offer, she becomes frightened and wakes. She has almost discovered me. Whatever troubles her is a greater influence on her than any gratification I can offer; she does not trust me. Her agitation has not faded yet. That is dangerous for both of us, so—” He turned his small, beautiful hand over to express his dilemma.

“What does she think of your conduct?” Rothger wondered aloud, concern for his master revealed in his frown.

“My reticence, you mean? I don’t know,” said Rakoczy after a minute hesitation.

“That is unfortunate,” said Rothger. The wind was rising, sounding like iron scraping ice, and he glanced around the laboratory as if he expected the interior shutters to break. “Should the fires be built up?”

“Not yet,” said Rakoczy, then added quietly, “It is unfortunate. For her as well as for me.” He rose and paced the length of his laboratory, his black fustian gown a garment more often seen in Rome or London than Moscovy, marking him a stranger as much as his clean-shaven face and manner of bowing. “I have sworn in church to protect this woman, though she is not one of my blood.” He stopped at a large trunk and put his hand on it. “How many more of these are left?”

“Four,” said Rothger, accepting this change of subject with aplomb. “And the earth in your mattress and soles.”

“I will send a request for more with Zary.” He saw the shock in Rothger’s countenance. “That’s Boris Feodorovich’s doing; he does not want the Hrabia and his Lancers to die in the snow. He has been able to persuade Ivan that Istvan Bathory would not like it. So Zary’s departure has been postponed yet again.” “And how will you explain your need for Transylvanian earth?” Rothger asked. “Istvan Bathory is likely to wonder why you need it.”

“Because he, too, is Transylvanian and knows the legends?” Rakoczy suggested. “I am an alchemist. I require Transylvanian earth for my . . . transformations. He will believe this.”

Rothger was about to question this when a single, high scream, thin as the crying wind, rent the air.

Rakoczy was off his stool at once. “Xenya,” he said, and gestured toward Rothger. “Fetch something hot from the kitchen— mead, visnoua, wine, it doesn’t matter. Bring it to me in Xenya’s chamber.” Then he was out of the door and rushing down the hall, hoping that his household servants would not be wakened by his wife’s screams.

There were three rooms allocated to her use, the smallest set aside for two clothes presses and a formidable bed. Xenya had pulled the curtains close around it, as if sealing herself in a chamber of cloth. As Rakoczy reached to draw them back, she screamed again, this time higher and in greater distress.

Rakoczy saw that she was half-awake, her honey-colored eyes open but her mind still in whatever nightmare had tormented her. He stood quite still, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and low, his Russian nearly perfect. “Xenya Evgeneivna. Xenya. Do not be frightened. You are safe here.”

A third scream, barely louder than a whisper, broke her free of the dream. She stared up at him, trying to keep from shuddering at the sight of him. “Husband,” she made herself say.

“What is the matter?” he asked, sympathy in his compelling eyes.

The wind drubbed the side of the house as if it sought to break in.

She looked away from her husband.
“I...
I had a dream.” This was all she wanted to say; her discomfort was clearly increasing and her behavior was not calculated to cause him to remain with her. “A nightmare.”

“Yes, I realize that,” he said, his voice low and gentle.

“It was only a dream. I was an idiot to cry out.” This last was more defiant than self-deprecating. She drew her covers closely around her, securing herself against his presence. Her plaited hair hung over her shoulder, a bronze rope; the silken night rail he had given her as part of his wedding gifts was tied all the way to her chin.

Rakoczy’s concern did not fade; he regarded her with sadness in his eyes, wishing that she would trust him. “What was it, Xenya?” It was not a demand but she knew he would not be put off; tonight, tomorrow, next week, next year, he would find her out.

“A nightmare, as I’ve told you, a child’s fright,” she answered evasively. “From time to time I have them.”

“What is your nightmare?” he persisted kindly. “Tell me.”

Her laughter was brief and forced. Her gesture was quick, as if discarding a rag. “Childish fancies.” She stared up at him, then looked away. “Nothing.”

“If it had the power to terrify you, it is hardly nothing,” said Rakoczy, opening the hangings enough to be able to sit on the foot of the bed, although he was aware she was apprehensive about him. He leaned back a litde, his small hands linked around the front of one knee. “Please tell me what you dreamed.”

There was a clatter on the side of the house as the wind at last succeeded in pulling a loose shutter off its hinges. The shutter battered its way onto the stable roof and then slapped onto the stout wooden wall surrounding Rakoczy’s house and stables.

Xenya shook her head, more scared of Rakoczy now than her nightmare. “It is not right to speak of dreams. Satan comes in dreams. It is not fitting—”

“Isn’t it.” He made no move to leave or to approach her.

Xenya watched him with suspicion, her vexation increasing. She tried changing the subject. “Are you going to make me your wife tonight?”

He gave her a long, measuring, kindly stare. “Is that what you expect? To be frightened into submission?” He gave her a chance to answer and when she did not, he said, “Xenya Evgeneivna, we are strangers, you and I. We have barely met. Neither of us sought the other. We are married because Czar Ivan had a whim and a determination to assure himself of my loyalty. You have endured his caprice already. You will not have to endure mine.”

She stared at him. “You do not want me?” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper and her eyes were huge. “Do I offend you?”

“No,” Rakoczy said at once, then went on more deliberately. “No, you do not offend me. But I suspect I might offend you: I am very foreign. The ways of my blood are not your ways.” He disengaged his fingers and stretched out his hand only to see her flinch at the simple gesture; he drew his hand back. “There. You understand?” It was more difficult for him to say this than he had anticipated and the last word caught in his throat.

“You will repudiate me,” she said miserably.

Rakoczy was very still. “Why should I do that? I know of no reason to repudiate you.”

There was panic in her eyes now, and something else Rakoczy could not quite read. “No. Oh, no. They told you, didn’t they? God and the angels! Anastasi and Vasilli, they said they would not, but they did.”

“They told me nothing that would offend me,” said Rakoczy, growing more aware of her profound, contained distress. “You have my word.”

She was no longer listening to him; she dashed tears from her eyes. “Did they tell you the truth, or the lie? Did they tell you my father ran and left me to them? Or did they repeat the myth? Did they say he stopped them before anything happened?” Her agitation increased with each question.

“They told me only that your father was killed by Mongols when Moscovy was attacked twelve years ago. They told me he was a hero.” He spoke very calmly, keeping to his place at the end of the bed. “They did not tell me very much about your father. He was the son of a poor nobleman and had no fortune, nor did the rest of that branch of the family. Thus, you have only one uncle who is very old and lives on his country estate who cannot leave his children much and has nothing for you; your

mother is provided for by Anastasi Shuisky, and she lives in his Moscovy house. You and she constitute the women of the terem.
Am
I correct thus far?” Was it fear of penury that had brought about her nightmare? he asked himself inwardly. She had been married out of hand to a foreigner. She had no relatives to provide for her. Perhaps she worried that he might desert her.

Her features were set and her hand gripped her blankets like talons. “If you wish the lie as well, so be it.”

Rakoczy shook his head, taking care to keep the challenge out of his question. “But what lie is it, Xenya?”

“You know.” She pulled her covers higher in an effort to bury herself in their depths. “I can see it.”

“What lie is it?” he repeated gently.

Before she could speak—if indeed she was going to—there was a tap on the door and Rothger announced himself.

“I have brought spirits of wine, my master, heated.” He held a lacquered tray in his hands with a single golden cup on it, a length of red linen wrapped around it to protect Xenya’s hands. “And I told the baker and the cook that they heard the wind. They have gone back to bed without questions. On a night like this, it might well be the wind.”

Xenya’s dread increased; she shrank back and averted her face.

Rakoczy saw all of this, but said only, “My manservant is going to bring the cup to you, Xenya.” He nodded once to Rothger, and waited while Rothger presented the cup.

“Better to have the cup from me,” said Rothger in his determined but badly accented Russian. “Keeps this meeting private.” “Thank you,” Xenya whispered, breathing too fast as she reached out and took hold of the golden cup by the cloth tied around it. She would not take her eyes off Rothger as he bowed to her and his master, then withdrew. “There should be no man but my husband in the terem,” she muttered.

Another shutter began to bang, flailing against the side of the house somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchens.

“Doubtless that is true,” said Rakoczy with practiced diplomacy, as if he were speaking to a nobleman of high rank instead of his reluctant wife, “if there were a terem in this house. But we agreed there would be none. Why establish a women’s quarters for just one woman and her personal servants? In this house,

who is to decide what pleases you but you? You said that you did not wish to live in isolation with two maids and your needlework, but wish to continue your charities and your religious activities.” His smile was speculative. “You told me that life in the terem was boring.”

“It is,” she said emphatically. “But it is . . . protected.” To forestall any explanations, she drank some of the spirits of wine, blinking at the potency of the hot liquid.

“Would you like to have a bodyguard, Xenya?” He asked it as if he were asking her what dish she wanted to eat at noon.

“. . . I. ..” She lowered her eyes. “It is not fitting. And if you gave me one,” she said, trying to rally her pride, “there are others who would guess the reason, because some of them suspect . . . and everyone would know . . .”

“Would know what?” Rakoczy asked when she faltered.

She did not answer. “How could they not? And my father would share my disgrace. Cousin Anastasi would not permit my mother to remain in his household—how could he? No. You must not give me a bodyguard.” This last was supplication; she took a deep, reckless swallow of her spirits of wine. “Tell me you will not. I couldn’t bear my shame being displayed.”