Darker Jewels (43 page)

“You come with me,” said Father Kovnovski in awkward Russian; he turned back to look at Rakoczy. “You are not free of this, I do fear.”

“No more do I,” said Rakoczy, and watched as the small party of priests and Guards disappeared into the thickening snow. He raised his hood at last, then folded his arms. “Boris Feodoro- vich,” he said speculatively, staring at the place where the Poles had vanished, “do you think it would be permissible for me to hire a Guard or two? Your men, of course.”

“You mean because of the Polish priests?” Boris asked, very conversational now that the moment had passed.

“I mean because my wife could be in danger,” said Rakoczy bluntly. “She has been dragged into this through no fault of hers. The least I can do is provide for her protection.”

“And you?” Boris began the laborious task of walking back to the Kremlin. After the first few steps he motioned to Rakoczy to follow him, remarking, “Had we gone to Mass at the Dormition this would not have happened.”

“Possibly not here, possibly not today,” said Rakoczy softly, “but eventually it would come to—”

“It could be dealt with,” said Boris, leaning into the wind as he walked. “There are ways these things are done.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the Polish embassy.

“But—” Rakoczy was alarmed at the implication.

“Oh, not now, not today,” Boris said with a shake of his head. “Not after such an event as . . . this.” He flung his hand back toward the snow-shrouded Beautiful Market Square. “But there would be a time, a quiet time, when the worst was over and the gossips wagged their tongues in other breezes. Then a man such as Father Pogner, if he were wise, would retire to the country and surround his estate with faithful retainers or he would face the consequences of his acts—the invisible dagger or the sweet poison or . . . any number of things.”

Rakoczy opened his gloved hands. “My task here is clear to me: I am sworn to the King of Poland, and Father Pogner’s distress does not change that.”

“Not for you, perhaps, but for Father Pogner it does, and you should not forget your position,” said Boris heavily. He was beginning to pant from the effort of walking through the drifts against the wind. “Father Pogner is in Moscovy, and King Istvan is in Poland.” He stopped and turned to speak to Rakoczy directly. “Your wife is not the only one who requires protection.” “Ah, but I have Rothger, and he is worth a company of fighting men, I promise you,” said Rakoczy, his dark eyes meeting Boris’ black ones. “Without him, I would have been very truly dead fifty times and more.”

Boris gave a grudging nod, his expression growing less harsh. “He is a good start, then; a good start.” Slowly he resumed his trek toward the Savior Gate. “But he cannot be with you every hour. He must sleep and eat and tend to the needs of men. Anyone sent to work against you would know to disable your servant before facing you.”

Rakoczy chuckled as he trod along beside him. “Boris Feodorovich, I am not entirely a novice at fighting. And any man who seeks to harm Rothger answers to me.”

“As many have learned to their cost?” countered Boris, and added the aphorism he had learned long ago from his Tartar mother. “You have yet to meet the man who will slay you.” This time Rakoczy’s smile was inward, ironic. “Do you think so?” He paused with Boris and blessed the ikon of Jesus.

As they entered the Kremlin, Boris abruptly changed the subject, preferring now to speak of celebrations and the anticipated state arrival of a noble messenger from the King of Sweden, far safer topics than enmity and assassination.

Text of a letter from Vasilli Shuisky to his cousin Anastasi Shuisky, written in Russian.

To my most honorable and esteemed cousin, Duke Anastasi Sergeivich, my most respectful greetings and my apologies for being remiss in my attentions as a blood relation.

It has been some months now since we have spoken together, which has increasingly troubled me, and I fear that through some misunderstanding we have become estranged. It is my utmost hope that our purpose and bonds hold us more firmly than the lapses of my duty to you. My conduct has been inexcusable, and for that I am most heartily sorry. It is not my wish, good cousin, to see any separation plague our family, and I pray it is not yours. In order for any of our family to advance, we must all work to that end, and not waste our strength vying against each other for the advantage that is by right that of Shuisky, and Shuisky above any other seeking high advantage.

Perhaps you assumed that I no longer needed your advice now that I have found a servant who can provide the translations you were used to give me. This is absurd, Anastasi Sergeivich. I would never trust a servant with the secrets that must be kept between members of our House. It would be imprudent. Both of us know to our bitter sorrow how foolish such conduct is, and what consequences come from misplaced trust. It was never my intention to supplant you ivith a servant. Why should I do so reprehensible a thing? Why would I place the entire family in the hands of a servant? You cannot think I am so despicable as that.

Certainly we have differences. It is the nature of men of vision to disagree on what is seen. We have had occasion to be at cross-purposes in the past. You are aware of them, as am I. It may be that we have allowed our goals to be forgotten because of our differences, but I trust this is not so. You and I both seek glory for Shuisky, and both of us have done many things to achieve that end. It may be that success is finally at hand. That would please me, as 1 trust it would please you, for if one of us is exalted, all of us are. Shuisky is our great cause, and the triumph of Christ. It is our task to see that we make every effort to bring our family to the prominence it has earned and deserves. Any other decision must be treason to our blood. You know as well as I that there is no way for us to proceed without the support of the other. Not my brothers, nor any of the rest, are as crucial to the great prize we seek as you are, Anastasi Ser- geivich.

Therefore, let me propose that we meet soon, as privately as we may without bringing attention to our privacy. Together we will surety arrive at the means to end the many obstacles that appear to mitigate against our success. You are wise in Court-craft and you have allies among the boyars who may be seeking a stronger Czar than the pitiable Feodor, those are the men we must convince of our righteousness, and for that I utterly depend upon you.

The servant bringing this is a deaf-mute and cannot read. Anything you say to him, any message you give to him, is as safe as if it were sealed in limestone. He is faithful as a hound, as well, and will carry this to me though
/
were in the farthest pit of Hell.

May God and the Czar show you favor and distinction, and may you be a figure of pride for the House ofShuisky, from this day to the Last Judgment.

Vasilli Andreivich

3

April arrived timidly, uncertain of its welcome, and throughout Moscovy the buds on the trees showed less promise than usual. Most of the people within the city’s walls shrugged and went about their work.

At Rakoczy’s house, its owner converted part of his stable to an alchemical center, with oiled sheets of parchment set in the ceiling that let in heat and light during the day. In the manger and around the walls, plants sprouted in tubs and long troughs of rich red or black earth, rising up toward the veiled light. At night the oiled parchment was covered over from the outside with huge, square, hinged shingles, a task the servants performed grudgingly in spite of the extra silver coins such duties gained them.

Four of the staff had just completed battening the shingles for the night, clambered down from the roof, and were headed off to supper when Xenya came into the center, her head held up in defiance, her eyes filled with fright.

Rakoczy paused in his lighting of oil lamps; he looked at her through the loamy twilight. Although she had never visited this part of the house before, he was not surprised. “Come in, Xenya Evgeneivna,” he said, resuming his work. “If you will permit me a litde time, it will be brighter.”

She stood just inside the doorway, looking around in bafflement, her posture changing as she became curious about the plants her husband tended. “But these—”

“As I explained,” said Rakoczy. “I have not finished everything, but this is about half of it.”

“They said—” Xenya began, then stopped herself.

Those two damning words were expected but they shook him anyway. “They?” he inquired gentiy.

Color flamed in her cheeks. “Unkind . . . people.” Now that there were two dozen lamps burning, the plants were much more easily seen. “This isn’t a—”

“Graveyard?” He was able to keep the bitterness from his tone but not the irony.

She was eloquently silent as she came farther into the room. She reached out and touched new-furled leaves of a thyme seedling, and bent nearer to savor its delicate scent. “You are making a garden.”

He smiled slightly. “You might call it that.” He did not add that the red and black earth in which the plants grew was his native earth: with his own servants becoming more suspicious of him and his embassy protection all but gone, he had thought it prudent to conceal it not in leather trunks but with living things: what better place to hide earth than in flowerpots?

“It isn’t a garden?” she questioned, leaning over a tub where a young birch grew.

“The Queen of England or the Pope in Rome certainly would not think so. I am an alchemist, and these plants are part of my studies,” he said, cordial enough but curious what tale she had been told, and by whom, that had brought her to this cobbled- together room in the first place. “That willow, for example, when it is a little taller, will provide an anodyne remedy from its bark, for the ease of aching sinews and fever.”

She nodded, more to show that she was listening than that she understood. She made her way between two rows of tubs of blue-green bulbous sprouts, frowning at them. “What are these? I have seen them before, in the country when I was a child.” “China poppies, fairly young,” said Rakoczy. “When they are grown they provide a syrup, very powerful, to soothe the pain of serious injuries. I used the last in my stores when I set Nemmin’s broken leg.”

“He was in great pain,” she said, her voice sounding remote. “But he slept for more than a day and a night.”

“It was the best remedy for him,” Rakoczy said calmly, permitting her to approach him in her own time; he had realized sometime before that she was not as quickly frightened of him if she decided how far away from him she was. He watched her closely, continuing as if her visit were an ordinary occasion. “I will have pansy, too, shortly; it is another anodyne. One not so severe as the syrup of poppies but stronger than willow bark.” Now that she was almost up to him, Xenya took a deep breath. “Ferenc Nemovich,” she said after a hesitation, “I have to talk to you. Please. Listen to me. I’ve decided I must. I am uneasy in my mind.”

“Ah?” Rakoczy pinched out his long taper and set it aside near the drum of lamp oil. His dark eyes warmed as she stood before him.

Now that she had his full attention, she faltered. “I have wanted to speak to you of this for . . . some weeks.” She swung around so quickly that the skirt of her sarafan almost knocked over a potted low-growing juniper. “Mercy of God! My husband, I’m sorry—”

“There is no harm; it’s nothing,” he said, calming her with his voice. “Tell me what you want to say to me.”

“I’ve tried before, but you . . . you were busy or there were other things ... between us, and
I...
I didn’t
want...”
She lifted her hands once. “It was not right that I . . .”

He reached out and trailed the backs of his fingers over her shoulder. “You don’t have to run from me, Xenya. I won’t hurt you.”

Immediately she turned back to face him, but kept the distance between them. “No; you have not. And I have been ungrateful. I’m sorry. I don’t know why you do not beat me. But I thank God and the Virgin that you do not.”

This time he turned away. “I know what it is to be beaten, little wife. I promise you are safe from me.”

“You may change your mind,” she said, anxiety making her voice shake. She took a deep breath. “I might, if I were a man, married to such a woman.”

As great as his sympathy was for her, he wanted to know what she had done. “If my word that I will not beat you is not enough, I’ll loan you my poignard. It’s tucked in the back of my belt in a leather scabbard. I’ll hand it to you.” He saw the confusion and doubt in her eyes as her countenance went deep red. “I beg your pardon, Xenya. That was uncalled for.”

This admission reassured her, and she did her best to face him directly. She folded her hands but had some trouble meeting his eyes, for fear of his compassion. “I have done a thing ... I thought it was correct to do. I supposed that I would not have been given the task if it were wrong . . . Perhaps that was foolish of me. For now that I have done it, I believe I was in error, and I have sinned against you, which I would never want to do. It was not my intention to do you any wrong. I was told it would not work against you. I may not be a very good wife but I would never work against you, Ferenc Nemovich. Never. Not for the world and the joys of Paradise.” It came out quickly, this confession of hers, and when she finished she took half a dozen steps away from him.

The deep alarm Rakoczy felt was not reflected in his expression. His voice was gentle as before, his manner as unruffled. “What is it you have done, Xenya Evgeneivna?”

She opened her hands and folded them again. “I ... I was asked by my cousin to ... to tell him about Yuri, the servant you sent to the—”

“I know which Yuri you mean,” he interrupted her quietly. “Yes.” She took a long, deep breath. “Yes. Anastasi Sergeivich wanted to know why he was sent to the Jesuits. He suspected you wanted to gain favor with Father Pogner, or so he informed me.” She began to pace, walking past the poppies to a tub of wolfsbane; she circled this twice, then came back toward Rakoczy, passing a large leather chest with the lid open, half its earthen contents still in it, along with a large trowel. “He said that the Polish embassy has turned against you: Father Pogner has denounced you as a heretic, at least Anastasi Sergeivich says he has. Is it true?”