Darker Jewels (3 page)

“And for that reason you well may be regarded with less suspicion by the Rus. They are wary of strangers, but an exile might not trouble them so much.” He touched his blunt fingers together. “And there is a greater reason than those two, though they are sufficient to my purposes.”

“And what reason is that, Majesty?” It was rare for a nobleman to insist on an explanation from Istvan, and rarer still for him to provide it.

Istvan decided that the question suited his purposes very well. “I have been told that you are an alchemist.” He motioned to the closed door. “The priest isn’t here. You may speak freely.”

So that was it, thought Rakoczy, aware that were he in Istvan Bathory’s position, he might well attempt the same ploy. “I have some measure of skill in the Great Art.”

“A great measure of skill, or so I am informed,” said Istvan. “It is said that you have the secret of jewels.”

“And who claims that?” asked Rakoczy, once again feeling his apprehension increase.

“I have word here from His Holiness Pope Gregory stating that you provided him with four rubies and four diamonds upon the establishment of the Collegium Germanicum in Rome, jewels that you had made. That was eight years ago. Do you tell me now that His Holiness has lied to me?” Exhausted though he might be, Istvan was crafty and experienced in manipulation. “I requested information on several Transylvanian nobles who were displaced by the Turks. His Holiness most graciously provided me with as much as he could.”

“I see.” Rakoczy was staring into the fire, as if there might be secrets behind the flames. “Very well. I did provide the Pope with jewels.” He paused thoughtfully. “I have . . . property in Rome. Occasionally I visit there.”

“Was that why you gave the jewels to the Pope?” asked Istvan, becoming curious.

“No, not precisely,” said Rakoczy. “Nor was it entirely to mark the establishment of the Collegium Germanicum.” It had been the only means he could think of to turn the attention that had been paid to his alchemical skills away from the suggestion of diabolism, for many priests and bishops still preached that alchemy was devil’s work. A gift to the Pope spared him their scrutiny.

Istvan decided to press the most important matter. “You gave the jewels to the Pope, though. Jewels you made?”

“I did.” He turned his penetrating gaze on the King of Poland. “And can you make more of them?” asked Istvan.

“If I have the proper equipment, and the correct materials,” said Rakoczy. “Without them, the work cannot be done.”

“I understand,” said Istvan, and went on with dawning satisfaction. “But with proper materials you could present Ivan with jewels? On my behalf?”

“If I have the necessary equipment and the materials are fine enough, then it can be done.” He felt a coldness within him that had little to do with the fading year or the setting sun.

Istvan clapped his hands decisively. “There are six Jesuits who are to leave for Moscovy as soon as the worst of the snows are gone in the spring. I want you to travel with them.”

“To Moscovy,” said Rakoczy.

“You will go as my emissary, one who is not a priest, who is noble and an exile. You will be able to tell for yourself the dangers posed by the Turks.” He rubbed his leg again. “If the Czar is too crazed to listen, give him jewels and hope to persuade him that way, through their magic, since he believes in it.” Rakoczy watched Istvan closely. “Majesty, are you in pain?” He shrugged, disliking to admit to any weakness. “Occasionally. I was grazed last year. There are times . . His voice changed, softening. “Yes. Today it hurts me.”

“I have something that will help,” said Rakoczy at once. “If you are willing to take it?”

Istvan shook his head. “No. As much as I may long for it, syrup of poppies may end the ache, but it stops thought as well.” Rakoczy studied Istvan a moment longer. “This will not rob you of your reason, nor make you sleep long hours. It has no lethargy in it.” He gave Istvan a moment to consider it. “I carry such medicaments with me, as a precaution. You need not wait to use it. I can give you some before you eat tonight.”

“An interesting offer,” said Istvan, unable to hide his curiosity. “Is this another aspect of your alchemical skills?”

“Yes,” said Rakoczy, thinking it was no more than the truth, for alchemy meant the Egyptian study, and he had learned to prepare that compound more than three thousand years ago in the Temple of Imhotep at Thebes.

“Most diverse, your skills,” Istvan mused, then spoke more decisively. “Yes. Yes, I will avail myself of your offer.” He regarded Rakoc
2
y with increased respect. “I confess that what I heard of you at first made me suspect that there had been exaggerations about you. Now I begin to believe that if anything your abilities have been underestimated.” He patted Rakoczy once on the shoulder, a familiarity that would have roused bitter jealousy in many courtiers, had they happened to see it.

Rakoczy had learned not to welcome such distinction; for what little favor such acts imparted, they reaped a greater share of hazard from those who coveted royal attention. “Majesty is most kind,” he said very properly, relieved they were unobserved. “What talents I do possess, and in whatever measure, are at your disposal.” His bow was perfect. “Even in Moscovy.”

This made Istvan grin, and he decided to make the most of his opportunity. “According to what I have been told, in addition to your other talents, you are something of a musician and you speak several languages.”

Rakoczy knew he had to tread carefully. “I can sing and play competently; as to the other, I have some knowledge of a few languages, yes.”

Istvan nodded sagely. “English wouldn’t be one of them, would it? They say that the English are in Moscovy, purchasing rope for their ships. If you could speak with them, you could be very useful to me, more than you are already.”

“I can manage a few phrases,” said Rakoczy, who spoke English and more than a dozen other languages fluently.

Something else struck Istvan and he rounded on Hrabia Saint- Germain. “And I’d almost forgot: you
do
speak Russian, don’t you?”

Concealing a sigh, Rakoczy said in that language, “It will be an honor to serve you, Majesty.”

Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens, written in Latin, from London.

To my dearest and most provoking friend, Ragoczy Sanct’ Germain Franciscus, my heartfelt greetings;

So it’s Moscovy, is it? Not content with facing Turks, you’re going to try the Russians? And do not excuse yourself with claims that the king of Poland has ordered it. You know as weU as I that if it were not your wish to go, you would have discovered any number of excellent reasons why it was not only impossible but inadvisable to send you there. I want to hear no protestations that this was forced upon you. Although to give you your due, you have not made any such protests.

But I am still annoyed with you, Sanct’ Germain. You are going to be farther away from me than ever, and that does not please me. I confess I am vexed. It is all very well to say that the Queen’s Grace has commanded an embassy be sent to Moscovy—which is true enough—but to suggest that I use her Ambassador to be my messenger to you could prove to be dangerous folly, and you are aware of it. You have not seen Elizabeth Tudor, and you do not know her temper. Suffice it to say that she has inherited her father’s rages and added to them a will of steel. I have seen her give vent to her anger once, and that was enough to convince me I would do well to be prepared to return to Rome on short notice.

You say in your letter that you do not believe you may return to your native earth in any time soon. It saddens me to hear it, for I know what it is to be farfrom Rome. Crates of earth are not the same as the earth itself, and while it provides sustenance it lacks the richness of home. You describe the precautions you are making to ensure you have sufficient amounts of your native earth while you are in Moscovy. I truly hope that they will suffice, for it is a great distance from Moscovy to Transylvania or Dacia or whatever those mountains are called. Do not remind me that you are more experienced in these things than I am: I am well aware of it, but that changes nothing. You are the one taking the risk, and you are the one who will suffer if you prove wrong.

And that brings me to another matter. You make no mention of when you are going to return. You indicate that Istvan Ba- thory has not set a limit on your mission. Perhaps you ivould care to guess? It may be that he wishes you to remain there until his dream is realized and Poland has united with Russia. Have you considered that? So suggest a year when I might expect you to come to London or Rome; if that is too limiting, then a choice of two or three would do.

Incidentally, the Queen’s Grace always refers to your Polish King as Stephen, not Istvan, although she does not change Czar Ivan to John. Elizabeth is a woman of strong mind and definite purpose, and does not welcome opposition, as Father Edmund Campion has found to his misfortune. She is also holding out against the change of calendar the Pope has declared. It would be rare for her to support anything the Pope approves, no matter how minor or sensible. So England and the Catholic countries of Europe will be misaligned by ten days. I predict there will be constant trouble until they are rectified.

Among those of the English embassy, there is a fellow you will wish to know. His name is Benedict Lovell, and I suppose you willfind him a usefulfriend. As a student at Oxford, he was one of the scholars sent to study with the Russian Ambassador when Richard Chancellor brought him here, for he was skilled in Greek and knew enough German to read it passably, and therefore was ordered to learn Russian. While the people of London gaped and stared at the Ambassador, Benedict Lovell was learn - ing his tongue, much to the disgust of his brother, who hankers to be a courtier and has neither the manner nor the money to do it properly. Benedict and I have had some dealings in the past, and for my sake he might well extend his goodwill to you. He does not know the secret of our blood—we were lovers only twice and it was not necessary to tell him. I will send word to him to make a point of speaking tvtth you once you arrive in Mos- covy. He is about thirty-four or -five, and was called from Oxford because of his knowledge of Russian to join the new embassy, at the request of the Ambassador, Sir Jerome Horsey. Do not chuckle too much, Sanct’ Germain: the poor fellow cannot help his name. I hope the Russians ivill not find it as funny as the English do. I have met Sir Jerome twice but I have no measure of the man to offer. For that, consult Benedict Lovell.

I wish you a safe journey and the achievement of whatever you are seeking. And while you are gone, I will miss you as I would miss an arm or the warmth of a cloak in the rain. You are not to take risks, Sanct’ Germain. I do not permit it. Not that I could stop you if you were determined.

Send me word when you can. And know that you can never be so far away from me that my love will not find you, you infuriating man.

By my own hand and with my dearest affections,

Olivia

At Greengages, near Harrow, 11 November 1582, English calendar

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Two years ago the house of Anastasi Sergeivich Shuisky had burned to the ground, so the one that stood in its place was not quite finished on the inside; woodworkers and painters strove to make it a fitting place for a Duke and his household to live.

“I wanted that room finished in time for Christmas; you knew that from the first,” Anastasi told one of his cowering carpenters. “You told me it would be done by Christmas, and look at it.” He flung his arm out toward the door of the offending room. “You cannot possibly do everything that is needed before Christmas.”

“We will bring more men, Excellency. We will work night and day.”

“And possibly bum the house down again,” said Anastasi heavily. “No, that is not acceptable, not squads of workmen coming in and out.” He got up and took a turn around the room, his head sunk onto his chest as he strove to control his temper. He wanted to shame the carpenters more than he wanted to punish them, at least for the time being.

The carpenter lowered his head, anticipating an order to be beaten. He dared not speak to Shuisky for that would make matters worse.

“That damned fire.” He stopped moving and turned on the hapless carpenter. “I would have you beaten, but then you would claim you could not work, and that will not serve my purpose. You will not escape work. I tell you, therefore, that you—you—and your two assistants, none else, will work continually until you drop from it.”

It was better than the carpenter had expected. He crossed himself and bobbed his head still lower. “We will do it. Yes, Excellency.”

“I will have you observed all day and night. If you slack, you will be beaten and sent away if you are still alive.” He glanced toward the room. “I will not accept inferior work, so do not do anything shoddy.”

“No, Excellency,” said the carpenter, his back already aching at the thought of the labor ahead of him.

“You will finish.” It was more than an order; it was a statement of fact, incontrovertible.

“Yes, Excellency,” said the carpenter, thinking that his reprieve was a bitter one, for if he failed, his two assistants—his nephews—would be subject to the same penalties he was. They and their families would become beggars if they failed to do as this Duke ordered them, assuming they were not killed.

Moscovy was subject to fires; a city of wooden buildings often covered in snow ran that risk as fires were constantly burning within them. The Moscovites had long since learned to make up the parts of a house in advance of building, so that the structures could be erected swiftly, sparing the occupants the dangers of exposure. Anastasi Shuisky’s house was grander than most, as befitted his rank, but had been assembled in the same way that most of the other Moscovy houses had. There were fourteen rooms on two floors, with kitchens, a bakery and a bathhouse at the back of the property, the midden and latrines on the other side of a stone fence. As noble establishments went, it was fairly modest, but a man like Anastasi Sergeivich Shuisky came from an ancient and revered family, so had no need of extravagant display.