Darker Jewels (46 page)

I look forward to speaking with you, and pray God will hold you safe in these uncertain times.

Benedict Lovell The English embassy in Moscovy April 22, in the Year of Grace 1585

4

“You have been meddling again,” Vasilli said to his cousin Anas- tasi as soon as the two were alone in his private study. “What must I do to keep you from interfering?” He fingered his beard, letting the curls encircle his fingers as he watched his blockier relative falter before the ikons.

Anastasi’s smile was masterful—cordial and cold at once. “What makes you believe this of me, Vasilli Andreivich?”

“You have been too blatant in your activities, I fear,” said Vasilli.

This accusation caused no change in Anastasi’s gelidly affable manner. “Why do you say this, sweet cousin?”

“There was a letter. You entrusted it to a Greek courier. He said he had performed such work for you in the past.” Vasilli selected his most comfortable chair and sank down in it. “He has met with greater misfortune than serving you: the poor man will have to become a beggar, I fear, if he is to keep from starving.”

“Who is the hapless man you describe?” Anastasi inquired, not waiting for Vasilli to offer him a seat; he chose the upholstered bench.

“The Greek. His name is Stavros Nikodemios.” Vasilli achieved an expression of saintly patience. “His feet were beaten on the soles with iron-studded clubs, as if he were a Mongol spy. There was much suffering for the poor man, due to his resistance. I fear he will not walk again. Yet he told us a great deal before all the bones shattered, much of it not to your credit, little cousin.” He indicated the ikon to Saint Vladimir of Perm, with his severed feet incorporated into his halo. “You may wish to pray to him on Nikodemios’ behalf.”

“Beaten on his feet with studded clubs—a very painful torture. No doubt he was in unreasoning agony when he answered your questions. And you believed him, after so much had been done? Surely he was raving, giving you what he thought you wanted to make you stop.” His expression was pleasant; he spoke as easily as if they were talking about crops.

Vasilli was not distracted by Anastasi’s demeanor; he remained adamant. “The man is a spy. Do you think the Patriarch of Jerusalem will give him charity, if he can drag himself so far?”

Anastasi made himself shrug. “It is sad to learn of his affliction, of course, but I haven’t seen the Greek in more than two years, and then I received him but once; when I learned his purpose, I did not allow him admittance again. My household will tell you that, if you have not asked them already. If you bother to inquire, you will discover the truth. At that time I was not able to aid him; he must have said so. I do not know what he has done since then.”

“Father Iliya has already informed me that he—Nikodemios— visited you while Czar Ivan was still alive. He claims he overheard your conversation.” He folded his arms and regarded Anastasi distantly.

“How could he have done that? He keeps to his prayers and his holy books, and shuns strangers. What do the others say, those in my house? Have you spoken to all of them?” Anastasi achieved an easy, pleasant tone of voice but the effort it cost him was formidable. “With my cousin Galina Alexandrevna dead there is only Piotr Grigoreivich or Father Ulya to speak for me. Who else has knowledge?”

“And your cousin Xenya Evgeneivna, what of her? What could she tell us? Surely she knows what you have done, living with you as she did,” Vasilli reminded him pointedly.

“Her husband might not permit her to come forward in a matter of this sort, even if it were possible for women to give testimony. But I doubt he would consider any request to expose her to public scrutiny, especially now that he is under suspicion himself.” It satisfied Anastasi that he had such a reasonable objection to make. He stared at Vasilli, verging on impertinence. “She is a woman, Vasilli, and her report would have to be unofficial. And with that husband, who would believe anything she said, no matter what it was.”

“And Boris Feodorovich would prohibit it, in any case,” said Vasilli, reluctandy accepting Anastasi’s protest. “Very well, there is Blind Piotr and there is Father Iliya. Perhaps they are not good witnesses; they are grateful to you for giving them a living and will support your claims. What they say because of their position might not be sufficient to direct suspicion away from you, and therefore from all the House of Shuisky. You are still taking risks that place our whole family in grave danger, Anastasi Sergeivich, at a time when only a fool would indulge in religious intrigue.”

“Why does that bother you, dear cousin?” asked Anastasi with false concern. “You have brothers who share your position at Court, and they are as dedicated to you, the leader of our House, as I am.” He smiled, his cupid’s-bow mouth curving delicately. “Or is that the trouble? Are they unwilling to endorse your claim when theirs are as valid as your own? You are the head of Shuisky, but do your brothers do your bidding willingly, or because they are mandated by law to obey you? Do you come to me because I cannot seek to climb as high as you might?”

Vasilli’s face was like stone. “Your implication is reprehensible. As a cadet member of this House, you are unwise to speak to me in that way.”

“You are not Czar yet, revered cousin, only a Prince. You are nothing more than a man with ambitions—ambitions that may not be realized, and for that reason if no other you are dangerous to know. I cannot embrace your hopes, not as your brothers ought to, for your gain leads only to hazard for me and my family whether or not you succeed in your plans. Your brothers would advance before your cousins, or have you forgotten that? If you were to gain your prize I would have to leave Moscovy and retire to my estates with my wife and children, or be forever watching behind my back.”

“You indulge in fantasies, Anastasi Sergeivich,” Vasilli informed him.

“And what do you indulge in, sweet cousin?” asked Anastasi with exaggerated courtesy. “You are aching to be Czar; it is a fever in you; you are delirious with it, and you would dare anything if it brought you to the throne and the fur-trimmed gold. What I have done—if I have done something—is nothing compared to your actions. Or have you convinced yourself that you will succeed where I must fail?”

“You are reckless, Anastasi Sergeivich. And by that you endanger more than your own worthless neck.” Vasilli tapped his long fingers together, deliberately refusing to look at Anastasi as he went on. “You are in no position to press for your advantage, not now. You would do better to agree to assist me, and to wait for the opportunity to advance your cause with mine.”

‘Truly?” Anastasi rocked back on his heels and looked squarely at his handsome cousin as if unaffronted by Vasilli’s conduct. “How generous you are, Vasilli Andreivich. To think you would permit me to serve in your cause, and for no other purpose than to move you toward the throne.” He chuckled. “I will say this: you are clever, and you are single-minded, and your ambitions are far higher than mine. But yours is not the only claim that might lead to glory.”

“You have no chance to rise,” said Vasilli, all pretense of good-will abandoned. “You are doing nothing but bringing misfortune to Shuisky by allowing suspicions to fall upon it. I will not allow you to do that. I have it in my power to banish you from this city, and I tell you now, I will exercise that power if you continue in your current activities. If you supported my claim and my actions, you could still achieve a higher place for yourself than you have any prayer of achieving on your own.”

“Until you decided I had risen too high, and did away with me, to the advantage of Dmitri or Ivan.” Anastasi smiled broadly. “How foolish you must think I am, dear cousin.”

“I am coming to believe you
are
foolish,” said Vasilli, his eyes steely with hidden anger. “Your actions are not those of a wise man.”

“You mean that my actions are not contrived to gain what you seek for yourself. You seek to make me your creature, dependent on you for my position and rank, therefore always at your service.” He bowed in the European manner. “You are eager to rule. Very well, that is your desire; I have other goals to pursue.” “What would they be, will you tell me?” Vasilli rose from his chair and walked toward Anastasi. “You will tell me.”

“For what reason? So that you can work to thwart me?” He laughed easily. “Vasilli Andreivich, let us agree that you have need of my help, or you would not bother to summon me in this fashion. Certainly your brothers are of no use to you if you seek the throne, for they, too, hanker to be Czar and would climb to the highest station over your corpse. You care nothing for my aspirations, and therefore I suppose that you would require some service from me. I gather that as you no longer trust your brothers, you must appeal to me for what Ivan and Dmitri are unwilling to provide without more recompense than you are willing to give. My title grants you protection from me, is that it, Prince? Or do you worry that Dmitri’s wife is sister to Boris Feodorovich’s wife, and therefore untrustworthy? A pity you did not make so convenient a match.”

“You presume too much,” said Vasilli, his eyes hard and his mouth now compressed to a straight line. “My success will not depend upon your assistance; I thought merely that it would benefit the family if you were part of my supporters. If you are not, then I will have nothing more to do with you.”

“For that I thank God. You think to rule from the throne, without the endorsement of the Church,” said Anastasi bluntly. “But the rule of the Church is greater than the Czar. Do not forget that, Vasilli Andreivich. More than the Czar, the Church is the heart of Russia, and the center of her power. If the Church opposes you, it matters little what position you attain.”

“And you assume the Church will support you?” Vasilli asked with obvious disbelief. “What senseless pride you possess, Anastasi Sergeivich, and how dangerous your game is.”

“It is no game,” said Anastasi affably. “It is your first mistake to suppose that my devotion is a game.” He laced his fingers together and pressed them down on his beard. “I strive to save my soul and preserve the soul of Russia from the terrible heresies of the Mongols and the Catholics. You care little whether we are guided by Moscovy or Jerusalem, and bow to the cross, thinking it is enough.” His tone darkened. “It is a pity you do not grieve for our faith, august cousin. We are besieged by those without God, from the highest to the lowest. Only our faith and our unwavering purpose will bring us salvation.”

“And yet you permitted Xenya Evgeneivna to marry one of the Polish embassy,” Vasilli pointed out, no longer making a pretense of amicability.

“Xenya Evgeneivna is fortunate to marry at all,” said Anastasi, dismissing the matter. “Since she had no wisdom to become a nun, she has had to find a husband where she could.”

“Yet you expect the Church to reward your support, when you permit such men as Rakoczy to enter the family.” Vasilli was openly contemptuous now and he glowered at Anastasi. “But doubtless you have reached satisfaction for all this in your mind and you do not suppose that anyone could question your motives.”

Anastasi heard his cousin out. “It saddens me that we are at such cross-purposes.” He got to his feet, and kissed Vasilli in good form as if there were no rancor between them. “It was good of you to ask me here, as it was kind of you to inquire after my fortunes, and offer me so great an advancement. It is lamentable that we cannot come to terms that would benefit both of us, but such is the case in families when one branch seeks to advance over the other. There is no argument you can put forth to convince me to lend you my support. If I shared your vision, I might abandon my purpose, but since I do not, I see no point in lingering to cause you distress. You must have others you seek to draw to your cause. I shall bid you good fortune and leave you to your quest.”

As much as Vasilli wanted to detain Anastasi, he could not reveal such weakness to his cousin, for Anastasi would certainly use such dependency against him. So he offered a proper Russian bow and indicated the ikons by the door. “Another time, perhaps, you will favor me with your company, when we might discuss our hopes with greater enterprise.”

“Perhaps,” Anastasi allowed as he crossed himself before the ikons. Then he repeated the ritual farewell and left Vasilli alone in his study, taking care to head directly for his own house when he left the Kremlin, so that anyone following him could report to Vasilli that he had made no detour on his way home. This was not the time for him to reveal the depths of his plans, or expose his allies to Vasilli’s wrath.

Vasilli remained alone in his study for most of an hour, deep in thought. He was very annoyed at Anastasi, for his plans had required the cooperation of his cousin. His brothers could not be persuaded to set aside their own ambitions in favor of his, and now his cousin had scorned the advancement he proposed. All the devils in Hell, Anastasi was more bothersome than a persistent flea. With his cousin’s aid no longer available to him, Vasilli determined to find another way to come to power. More than that, he would decide upon the means to punish Anastasi for the insolence he had shown: it would be gratifying to number Anastasi with his enemies and to include him in his vengeance when the time came for him to ascend to power. The notion was entrancing, and Vasilli indulged himself in his dreams.

This did not seem as impossible as it once had. When his brothers had declined his request for their help, he had feared he could not carry through his visions of rule. His despondency had given way to renewed purpose and careful undertakings. After several months of planning and the suborning of officers and servants, Vasilli was now far more hopeful of success. Given another year he could strengthen his position so that it would be unassailable, so powerful that even his brothers would not dare to move against him. There were a few obstacles to overcome: he would have to discredit Boris Feodorovich Godunov, a task that was not impossible given Boris’ Tartar mother. There were many boyars who would never trust Boris. Nikita Romanovich Romanov was a more difficult opponent, having noble position comparable to his own. Czar Ivan’s beloved first wife had been Romanova, strengthening Nikita’s credentials to rule now that he shared the burden of caring for Czar Feodor Ivanovich, a position the boyars would continue to approve until such time as Vasilli planted the malign seeds of doubt in the court.