Darker Jewels (10 page)

“Yes,” said Ivan in a low voice. “Of course. Everyone.”

“Little Father.” Yaroslav recognized Ivan’s returning despair and did what he could to distract the Czar. “It is seen as a good sign that Istvan should show such honor to you, Little Father. The patriarch has already declared that he has seen God’s hand in this work, and it brings new times to Russia.”

“New times.” Ivan held out his hand, staring at his hideously bruised knuckles. “How can there be new times while my son’s blood is on me?”

“Perhaps because merciful God will cleanse it away,” said Yaroslav as he tried without touching Ivan to get him to move out of the chapel.

Reluctantly Ivan moved through the door, then paused before the tremendous ikons that flanked the chapel entrance; two gigantic golden angels stood guard, one holding a stylus, one holding a spear. Below the angels were a number of smaller ikons of the Prophets, each lavished with gold leaf.

“This is the Third Rome,” Ivan said emphatically as he crossed himself three times. “This is where Christ will reign when He returns.”

Wisely Yaroslav crossed himself. “The Mass will be at the Cathedral of the Dormition.” More properly it ought to be held at the Cathedral of Saint Mikhail, but since killing his son Ivan had refused to set foot in the building where all the rulers of Russia were to be buried, claiming he would go there soon enough.

“A pleasant place, the Dormition,” murmured Ivan as he permitted Yaroslav to lead him away through the corridors of the Terem Palace to his private quarters.

By the time Czar Ivan emerged again, he was dressed in one of his grandest kaftans, jewel-encrusted and gold-embroidered so that it glistened, appropriate to the occasion of welcoming the Polish embassy. His beard and hair were washed and combed and he wore the fur-bordered crown of his father. At first glance, his appearance was excellent; only those who had watched him through the last year would recognize the telltale shine in his eyes and the tremor in his hands.

Inside the entrance of the Terem Palace, Yaroslav handed Ivan off to the care of his son’s wife’s brother, the energetic and canny Boris Feodorovich Godunov, with the whispered warning, “He was up all night, in the chapel.”

“I see,” said Boris with immediate understanding, and at once directed his attention to Ivan, bowing deeply and offering a gesture of submission. “Good morning, Little Father. May our gracious God send His blessings to you this day.” He stopped to cross himself before the ikons at the door, then signaled the guards to open the door.

Ivan stood as if transfixed by the ikons. “They are always watching. No matter what we do, they are always watching.”

“To remind us that God is always watching,” said Boris smoothly. “Come, Litde Father. The Patriarch will not begin the Mass without your presence.”

“No, he would not do that,” said Ivan, and straightened himself as he regarded the soldiers on either side of the door. “These men are the might of Rus. There are no other men as strong as they are.”

“True enough, Little Father,” said Boris, managing not to sound as if he were placating the unpredictable old man. “They rode with you from Kazan to Pskov. They showed their devotion and loyalty in a thousand ways each day.”

“Yes,” whispered Ivan. “They were loyal.”

Not far away a group of peasants prostrated themselves at the sight of the Czar; they remained on their faces until Ivan was at the entrance to the Cathedral of the Dormition, his escort trailing him with arms at the ready.

The inside of the cathedral was crowded and smoky. Censers filled the air with incense, and scores of priests made their way around the cathedral blessing the hundreds of ikons in anticipation of the Mass.

Ivan was guided to his place, and the Patriarch intoned the opening words of the Mass, to be echoed by the choir. As the procession to the ikonostasis began, the congregation parted to give the clergy room to pass, for there were no benches or other seats in the cathedral; Russians stood in the presence of God. The Chrysostom liturgy was long, ending almost two hours after it had begun. In the whole service Ivan lost his composure only once; during the Veneration of the Virgin he wept wretchedly.

Boris Godunov was at Ivan’s shoulder before the last
omeen

had died away, saying respectfully, “The foreigners have been brought, Litde Father, and they are waiting for you in the reception hall of the Granovitaya. They have been there some litde time. Let us announce your coming to them.”

“The foreigners should wait while we give thanks to God,” said Ivan lucidly enough. “It would be more fitting if they were to worship with us.”

“The Jesuits are not allowed to do that,” Boris reminded him. “It would be against their religious teaching.”

Ivan glared at him, his face darkening. “Then their religion is at fault. We would allow anyone to come into our churches and sing the praises of God. If they are not allowed to do this, then their religion is not true religion.”

“Very possibly, Little Father,” said Boris quickly to forestall another outburst of temper. “But let them find their own way to God. You have said yourself that it is the only way any man can worship.”

“Ah.” Ivan considered this and nodded. They were approaching the Granovitaya now, its splendid Renaissance Italian front still catching the eye. The Palace of Facets had been the creation of Marco RufFo and Antonio Solario not quite a century before and was still reckoned to be one of the most impressive buildings within the Kremlin walls.

“These foreigners are not sent in war but in peace,” Boris went on, watching Ivan covertly but very closely. “They are men of the Church and they do not want our soldiers to fall in battle.”

“Still, they have fallen many times, all because those Jesuits were eager to bring their false Christianity to Russia.” Ivan reached up and squared the crown on his head. “I will listen to what they have to say, and I will do what I decide is best with them.”

“Your wisdom is always excellent,” said Boris as they entered the Palace of Facets. “And we will all be glad to learn of you.” He bowed deeply again; being a noble he did not have to prostrate himself completely.

Another escort of soldiers framed Czar Ivan at the entrance to the cavernous reception hall while the Court of nobles in their golden kaftans took their places in their appointed seats.

“In which room are they being kept?” asked Ivan of the nearest guard.

“The Red Chamber,” said the nearest guard.

“A great honor,” muttered Ivan, who often denied his own nobility access to this waiting room because it was too beautiful for most visitors to see.

“To show the Pope of Rome there is no insult given,” said the guard. “It was the suggestion of Vasilli and Anastasi Shuisky.” “Shuisky!” said Ivan with a mixture of contempt and approval. “Those cousins show the foreigners too much respect.”

“The Patriarch himself said it would be wise,” one of the other guards pointed out very softly. “Because the Pope of Rome is a Christian Prince.”

“Ah.” This was reasoning Ivan was more willing to accept. He nodded, fingering his beard, and watched carefully as his nobles took their places in the huge hall. The elaborate pattern of the floor held his attention briefly, and then he watched his nobles more closely. “Where is the basin and cloth?”

“The servants will bring them,” said the nearest guard. “They wanted to be certain that Czareivich Feodor Ivanovich was in his place before they brought the cloth and basin.”

Ivan looked away, his nostrils pinched as if he had suddenly smelled fresh urine. “I hadn’t thought... of course.” Only the year before Feodor had disgraced his father by playing with the water in the basin at another such reception of foreigners. At the time everyone had done their best to make light of the dreadful gaffe, as if Feodor were performing an entertainment like the skomorokhi who sang and put on puppet shows on market day. But such a lapse could not be tolerated again.

“Once the Czareivich is in his place, we will be ready.” The guard’s voice came from somewhere behind Ivan but he felt as if it came from overhead, from the elaborate patterns of the ceiling and perhaps from God’s sky above.

There was a sudden flurry of activity in the reception hall signaling the arrival of the gende, foolish Feodor; Anastasi Ser- geivich Shuisky, resplendent in a red-and-gold kaftan and tall fur hat, slipped into the Red Chamber, bowing respectfully to the Polish embassy. “We are almost ready for you now,” he said in Greek, motioning them forward.

Father Pogner, who understood Greek but spoke it badly, said to Ferenc Rakoczy, “Tell him that we are ready as well.” Rakoczy spoke in Russian, and added after relaying Father

Pogner’s message, “Tell us, what are we to do? No one has said.” He was dressed in a sable mente—which in the warm June weather was uncomfortably hot—over a dolman of doth-of- silver embroidered in black and red. From a silver collar depended a pectoral of raised, displayed silver wings, surro
unding
a circular, glowing dark gemstone.

Anastasi was relieved not to have to continue in Greek. “You are not to touch the Czar. You are to approach him only when you are told to; otherwise you must stay at a distance. After he has washed his hands, you must leave the palace. You need not prostrate yourself when you are called before him, but you must bow to him as you would bow to your King Istvan. Is that understood?”

“I believe so,” said Rakoczy. “What else?”

“So long as one of you understands Russian, I think we will manage well enough. The little Father is versed in many languages, but he is pleased when foreigners speak the language of Rus.” Anastasi looked around the room. “My cousin Vasilli will do what is necessary to present you.”

“Not you?” Rakoczy asked in some surprise after he had translated the bulk of this for Father Pogner.

Beside him, Father Krabbe looked apprehensive, and smoothed the front of his habit for the dozenth time, fingering his pectoral crucifix as he did.

“I am not of sufficient rank, I fear,” said Anastasi with an angry smile. “No matter which noble family presents foreigners, they must always be presented by the family member of the highest and oldest rank. That is our custom.” He folded his arms. “My cousin is taller than I am, thinner, and not as fair, but otherwise we are much the same in appearance.” He looked at Rakoczy. “I presented him to you earlier.”

“Yes. I will know him again,” said Rakoczy, not bothering to glance at Father Pogner. “Where do we go once the presentation has been made?”

“You will return here and wait for me. I will then take you where the Little Father decides you would best present yourselves to the Court. Remember, do not touch anyone unless they offer their hands.” He bowed slightly, turned abruptly and returned to the reception hall.

As soon as Anastasi was gone, Father Pogner hurried forward, his face set with outrage. “Who are they to tell us how we are to behave?”

“They are the people we will have to treat with,” said Rakoczy gently. “And if that means we pluck chickens for them, then we will do it.” He looked at the other seven priests. “You are here for Poland first, good Fathers. It is safer.”

Only Father Kovnovski looked truly enthusiastic about their coming presentation; Fathers Tymon and Felikeno were apprehensive to the point of fear. Father Krabbe was more nervous than frightened. Fathers Brodski, Lomza, and Komel were trying to be remote, each keeping silent though none of them made a pretense of prayer. They were in their habits, their sashes laced with gold, their crucifixes large, golden, and jeweled. Against the opulence of the Russian court they would appear paltry.

Father Pogner was prepared to argue with Rakoczy, but his opportunity was lost as two tall guards carrying Tartar battle- axes came into the Red Chamber and bowed to them, indicating the door leading to the reception hall. There was no sign of Anastasi Shuisky’s taller, leaner cousin Vasilli.

The Court was intended to impress from the huge reception room to the smallest detail of Court clothing: every noble wore a kaftan worked in gold with wide jeweled collars. Their tall fur hats were trimmed with uncut gems and pearls. Several hundred men sat around the room, all of them looking at the straight- backed, fierce old man who occupied the center of the rear of the hall, who was more magnificent than any of the rest. In silence the small Polish party approached the tall, white-haired figure in the fur-trimmed crown.

Without Vasilli Shuisky to tell them, Rakoczy had to guess how close the Polish embassy could come to Czar Ivan without causing offense. As they drew within two arm’s lengths of him, Rakoczy stopped and went down on his knee, removing his black velvet hat as he did. “Most exalted Prince Ivan, Czar of all the Russians,” he began in a voice that carried throughout the hall before all the priests had dropped to their knees as well. “We come in the name of Istvan Bathory of Poland, who greets you in the brotherhood of Princes and prays that it will be possible for you and he to set aside your former arguments in order to preserve the Christian world from the Ottomites.”

Ivan cocked his head to the side, looking narrowly at Rakoczy. “You are no Pole,” he said at last.

“No, I am not. I come from Transylvania, of ancient blood, as does King Istvan. Until my lands were conquered I held the title of Prince. Now I am a Count, and an exile. I am here at King Istvan’s personal behest.” Rakoczy said it clearly, and saw Ivan’s expression vacillate between fury and sorrow. What about his answer had caused the Czar such distress, he wondered. And how would he avoid such errors again.

“The priests are Polish,” Ivan accused them.

Father Pogner answered in Polish, which Rakoczy translated. “We are from the Church as much as King Istvan. Father Krabbe is Bohemian. Father Komel is Prussian. I am Galician. Each of us owes worldly fealty to King Istvan as we owe the faith of our souls to the Church.”

“That was a fair translation,” said Ivan when Rakoczy was finished. “It pleases me that you did not change what the priest has said. Those who change the words of priests are damned.” He looked around, his eyes lingering on his moon-faced son Feodor before sweeping over the Court.