Fearful Majesty

by Benson Bobrick

  Relations with England preoccupied him. The “honeymoon” was over and his courtship of Barberini suggested the trouble the Russia Company was in. Part of it (and the lesser part) was disciplinary. Most of the stipendiaries were very young men out on their own for the first time, and because the English enjoyed such favored status, were tempted to revel in the vices strewn in their path. They hung out in taverns, debauched themselves with prostitutes, and embezzled company money to get themselves up in silk and velvet so they could “ride and goe like Lordes.”1 Though servants themselves, they kept servants of their own, along with “superfluous burdens like dogges and beares.” London ordered a crackdown. “If they do not amende,” read the directive, “ship them home.”2 Jenkinson was empowered to do just that, but other problems appeared beyond the company’s control. At Narva, a port potentially far more prosperous than the roadstead of St. Nicholas could ever hope to be, Ivan welcomed ships from all nations, including those operated by English merchants not affiliated with the company. In 1558, for example, six ships at most disembarked at St. Nicholas, while fifty-seven English and thirty Scottish ships entered the Baltic through the Sound. The possibilities for barter at the new international crossroads also tempted certain merchants within the company itself to trade individually, thus breaking the franchise rules.

  The company claimed it had a flat monopoly (granted by the queen) on English-Russian trade. Unaffiliated merchants claimed that when the charter had been issued, Narva was not yet a part of Russia. Therefore, it didn’t apply to that city. The company reminded the government that it had pioneered the White Sea route with considerable suffering and loss, and that it had helped build up the English Navy, both through its import of cables, cordage, tar, hemp, wax, and flax and by fostering shipping and seamanship through its promotion of the merchant marine. On both counts, its contributions had indeed been valuable, along with others tactfully un-mentioned in its service as a diplomatic pouch. The Privy Council was swayed. Seeking both to reward the company for its efforts and to protect the monopoly, it ruled that no other “should henceforth be permitted to trafique to the Narve out of this realme,”3 and reinforced the edict by Parliamentary Act.

  The interloping trade, however, could not be stopped completely, in part because Ivan favored it as an additional source of supplies. Barberini was the sort of man he wanted to meet. As the company strove to retain its monopoly, Ivan, “feeling the mounting costs of the war and fearing diplomatic isolation, hoped to bring down prices of imports by flirting with rival merchants” (English and foreign) and “to woo Elizabeth into an aliance, by promising expanded trade benefits.”4 At the same time he could not afford to provoke her too far, for the northern route alone was safe from interdiction, even if the mariners had to brave the shoals and stormy seas.

  After reading Elizabeth’s letter of concern about Barberini and the state of English-Russian trade, he expressed sympathy, granted Jenkinson’s request that the company be allowed to establish new warehouses at Narva, Dorpat, Kostroma, and elsewhere, and to transport its merchandise duty free to Central Asia. But in turn he demanded that Elizabeth send him, as a sign of goodwill, “technical experts to bolster his war machine.”5 Specifically (letter of September 16, 1566), he requested fortress architects, prospectors (“such as are cunning to seke out gold and silver”), metallurgists, plus a doctor and an apothecary, among “craftsmen to be sent owt of Englande.” Promising to pay them handsomely and to reward Elizabeth too, “out of ower great goodness,” he also pledged (rather self-consciously), “when [the craftsmen] are willing to goo home ageyne we will lett them goo.”6 What other monarch would have had to promise this?

  Ivan deemed his communiqué too urgent to await the White Sea thaw, and since “the Baltic had become an unsafe avenue for English shipping, above all for an envoy of Elizabeth,”7 due to “intense patrolling of the sea lanes leading to Narva in order to halt suspected military supplies from reaching Muscovy,” Jenkinson was obliged to travel overland at some considerable risk through Europe to the North Sea. He delivered Ivan’s letter to the queen in December, and returned to Russia in the summer of 1567 with exactly those craftsmen Ivan had sought (including Humphrey Locke, an outstanding military engineer) and a letter from Elizabeth dated May 18 appealing for confirmation of English trade privileges and help in cracking down on maverick English merchants – “obscure destitute men… deceived by false beliefs and misled by a desire for gain”8 – who were slandering the company monopoly as a confinement of trade.

  Ivan’s prompt reply (September 1567) thanked her for the technicians (“We prayse God alone, singing with holy words”9), hoped for “everlasting love” in friendship between them, but hedged on her appeal. Instead of rewarding her out of his great goodness, he challenged her to break diplomatic relations with Poland, on the grounds that Polish agents provocateurs had recently been stirring up ill-will between their merchants, and insisted upon a “great messenger” or fully accredited ambassador (not another merchant-envoy) be sent from England so that high affairs between them could be discussed at the appropriate level. Those affairs were spelled out in the following extraordinary demands:

  The Emperour requireth that the Queens majestie and he might be (to all their enemyes) joyned as one; ffriend to his friends and enemy to his enemyes, and so per contra. And that England and Russland might be in all matters, as one; that the Queens majestie would lycence maisters to come unto him which can make shippes, and sayle them, and suffer him to haue owt of England all kynde of Artillerie and things necessarie for warre. Further the Emperor requireth earnestly that there may be assurance made by oath and faith betwixt the Queens majestie and him, that yf any misfortune might fall or chance upon either of them to goe out of their countries, that it might be lawfull to either of them to come into the others countrey for the safegard of them selves and their lyves.10

  And he gave Elizabeth until “St. Peter’s day next” – June 29, 1568 – to reply.

  A KIND OF brinkmanship also began to affect Ivan’s diplomacy on the Livonian front, where he closely followed the progress of the Northern War. Despite Erik’s early initiative, Frederick appeared at first to have Sweden entrapped. Sjaelland, Skane, Bomholm, Gotland, and Oesel formed a chain of Danish strongholds across the Baltic, while Jamtland and Harjedalen put the Danes within striking distance of the Gulf of Bothnia, which divided Sweden from southern Finland. Erik’s solitary access to western seas – and western salt – was Alvsborg.

  He met the challenge with vigor and audacity, refortifying Alvsborg to safeguard his gate to the Atlantic, Vyborg to protect his back door in Finland, and Reval to secure his foothold in Estonia. Rearming his infantry (which he reorganized into units modeled on the Roman cohort and legion) with pikes, halberds, and body armor, he also took the strong navy Gustav Vasa had bequeathed him and made it “unsinkable” by giving his warships a double hull packed with iron ore at the waterline. Legend credits him with the invention of broadside tactics. History incontrovertibly records that his ships were bigger, better, and stronger than any in the northern seas, and that under two brilliant admirals, Jacob Bagge and Klas Kristersson Horn, they dominated the Baltic, and even patrolled the Sound. Indeed, Erik was able to impose a toll of his own in the Gulf of Finland and a partial blockade on Narva. In June 1563, his navy seized a fleet of thirty-two Danish merchantmen returning from the Russian port, and in 1566 the entire Dutch salt-fleet of fifty-two ships, with enough cargo to supply the whole of Sweden for a year. Though the Danes finally took Alvsborg in 1565, the Swedes triumphantly offset that loss by capturing Varberg, as Erik laid plans for a drive on Oslo.

  Nevertheless, all these hard-won and spectacular achievements could not be considered out of jeopardy until – or unless – either Poland or Russia were secured as a firm ally. Though the Swedish Navy had remained supreme in the Baltic, the Danes had proved superior on land. Their answer to Klas Horn was Daniel Rantzau, a brilliant general, who drove Erik back from the North
Sea and evicted his troops from Norway. Plans were drawn up for the invasion of Sweden itself. An alliance between Sweden and Poland was out of the question, however, as long as Johan and Katerina were incarcerated, yet Erik dared not release them because of Johan’s certain challenge to his throne. That left Russia.

  Katerina’s marriage to Johan had humiliated Ivan (for what was a duke of Finland compared to a tsar?), and because of Johan’s solidarity with Sigismund, his sexual jealousy was aggravated by political hate. Erik had been conciliatory of late, yet Ivan understood well enough that it was only because of the Northern War that his goodwill was coveted in Stockholm. Mutatis mutandis, he regarded Erik, Johan, and Sigismund equally as his deadly enemies. And it was therefore with a certain vindictiveness perhaps peculiar to himself that he concocted a triple revenge: in one move, to obtain a hostage against Sigismund, Johan’s humiliation, and Erik’s disgrace. This was the kind of chess move Ivan lived for.

  Accordingly, in 1565 he offered Erik peace on the Russo-Finnish frontier, recognition of Swedish sovereignty in northern Estonia, and a full alliance – in exchange for Johan’s wife.

  Erik at first ignored the gambit. Then Ivan began to press. On the one hand, Erik was tempted, for he was determined, as he wrote, “not to sacrifice my state for the Duke of Finland”11; on the other, he sincerely scrupled to commit a godless act. “What God hath joined may no man put asunder”: Katerina and Johan really were in love. Katerina wore a ring engraved: “Till death do us part.”12

  He vacillated, increasingly, and in his vacillation considered fratricide; and though he couldn’t bring himself to do it, the impious idea ate steadily away at his mind. Meanwhile, the two abnormal and not altogether dissimilar monarchs continued their correspondence. They had, in fact, a number of things in common: a taste for theological learning, a mystico-historical belief in their own royal lineage, a reputation for personal cowardice and (au pair, as these things go) extreme ruthlessness in dealing with the shortcomings of subordinates. Both, it is fair to say, were also incipiently paranoid.

  But “even paranoids have enemies,” and in 1567, with the tide of war turning against the Swedes, Ivan invited Erik to send envoys to his royal compound at Alexandrova Sloboda, to negotiate a treaty “between equals.”

  With his own pretensions to ruling by “divine right,” this mattered to Erik rather too much. Katerina was all Ivan asked. Erik gave in, and over the opposition of his own royal council empowered Gyllenstierna to yield Katerina – if that’s what it would take. That’s what it took. The notorious treaty was signed on February 16, 1567, at the Sloboda, and in May a Russian embassy arrived in Stockholm for its ratification.

  The weight on Erik was tremendous. He recoiled within himself at the shame he was bound to incur in the eyes of posterity, yet hoped to eclipse it by the name he would earn for having preserved and enlarged his kingdom, which seemed to depend on his disgrace. Either way he faced a national catastrophe, for as king his personal ignominy would stain the realm.

  Under the circumstances, he did perhaps the only decent thing: he went insane.

  * * *

  27

  Conspiracies

  IVAN HAD REACTED badly to the petition submitted to him after the Sobor of 1566. While the signatories had hoped to induce him to abandon the Oprichnina in return for their support of the war, Ivan was convinced that his tentative concessions earlier that spring had been read as a sign of weakness: people were beginning to raise their voices in dissent who would never have dared to raise them before. As soon as the Lithuanian embassy departed, he launched into reprisals, and over the next several months tortured, imprisoned, mutilated, or executed most of the petitioners. The Oprichnina was significantly expanded, as the entire district of Kolomna was appropriated for his guard, its ranks engorged with 500 new recruits, and fortress construction in Vologda and elsewhere accelerated at strategic locations on Oprichnina land.

  PERHAPS TO ALLAY some tincture of guilt after concluding his treaty with Erik, Ivan trekked north on a pilgrimage to the White Lake Monastery where, “overcome by dark and gloomy thoughts,” he confided to certain elders his burning desire to become a monk. He fell upon his knees and the abbot blessed him. In gratitude the tsar donated 200 rubles to finance the preparation of his cell.

  Ivan’s renewed talk of abdication gave rise to rumors, which rippled around the court. Naturally, they increased the malaise in government circles and prompted even some of Ivan’s loyalists to explore new arrangements that might enable them to survive. If the first abdication had led to the Oprichnina, what might the second one bring?

  With both Lithuania and Moscow preparing to resume the war, Sigismund August moved to take advantage of the domestic discord and sent secret invitations (cosigned by the Lithuanian hetman, Grigory Khodkevich) to four prominent Zemshchina boyars – Ivan Chelyadnin, master of the horse, and princes Ivan Belsky, Ivan Mstislavsky, and Mikhail Vorotynsky – inviting them to defect. Although these letters were dutifully turned over to Ivan (and the courier who delivered them promptly impaled on a stake), Sigismund had rightly guessed that the tsar would have to wonder why the four had been singled out, and whether, perhaps, the king knew something about them that he didn’t know. No protestations of loyalty would suffice. The nobles would know this too, and be uneasy. At the very least it would stir up trouble between Ivan and those on whom he chiefly relied.

  The heaviest suspicion fell on Chelyadnin, in whose care the letters had been sent. He had been among those to negotiate directly with Khodkevich the summer before, and it is not impossible that the two had come to some understanding. This would have been a blow as stunning as Kurbsky’s flight. Of untitled boyar stock, whose family had served the grand princes of Moscow since the early fourteenth century, Chelyadnin had been master of the horse since 1547, and in the crisis of 1553 had firmly supported the tsarevich Dmitry. During Ivan’s absence from the capital, he had occasionally governed in his place, and during the Oprichnina’s first year had presided over the Zemshchina Council that administered Moscow. But Chelyadnin also represented the opposite of what the Oprichnina stood for. Though a fabulously wealthy landlord, he was said to be incorruptible, and enjoyed the reputation even among enemies of being “the only honest judge in Moscow.”1

  Ivan kept his suspicions to himself, but rode from Vologda to Alexandrova Sloboda, where he dictated sarcastic and abusive replies for each correspondent (except Chelyadnin) to send. Chelyadnin was invited to draft his own.

  Impersonating Belsky, Ivan began with a parody of Kurbsky’s second epistle: “We have carefully read your letter and we understand it well. You have written in the manner of a procurer, swindler and scoundrel…. You should know that the will, the mercy and the hand of God uphold the autocracy of our Tsar, and bless us who are his worthy councillors. We cannot be destroyed by a little gust of wind.” As Vorotynsky, Ivan denied the existence of the Oprichnina and the execution of any but outright traitors. Apostrophizing Khodkevich, he wrote: “You whelp of the devil! Our tsar is a true Orthodox ruler and wisely directs his country; he favors the good and punishes the bad. Traitors are merely executed here as elsewhere.” As Mstislavsky, Ivan repeated his theories of rule by divine right and his legendary descent from Caesar Augustus. Chelyadnin wrote on his own behalf: “I am already old. Were I to betray my sovereign, it would be like breaking my heart, and I would die. I am not young enough to serve you as a soldier…. And I have not been trained to be a court jester.”

  These letters were never sent. In August, Lithuanian troops attacked and destroyed the new frontier island fortress of Kopiye on Lake Susha, forty-five miles from Polotsk, and in September routed a Russian force nearby. In late October, Sigismund marched with a large army (more than 20,000 strong, equipped with artillery) to Radoshkovits on the Lithuanian frontier. In mid-November, Ivan abruptly canceled the scheduled fall campaign and returned to Moscow. Alleging that his artillery had not been delivered to the front on time, he executed his new tran
sport commissioner, Kazarin Dubrovsky. In fact the campaign had been aborted because he had “uncovered” a broad-based conspiracy linking Chelyadnin with his cousin Vladimir Staritsky.

  On Ivan’s insistence, the hapless Staritsky went to Chelyadnin to ask him, as if in confidence, for a list of those on whose support he could count. Chelyadnin apparently obliged, and thereby betrayed some thirty colleagues. Who knows how many had really joined together in a plot? Chelyadnin may merely have been giving his opinion. But insofar as Ivan was concerned, they all might as well have sworn a blood oath of tyrannicide. Nevertheless, his fears were not unfounded and Polish sources indicate that a plot, coordinated with Sigismund August, did in fact exist: namely, to kidnap Ivan during the fall campaign and hand him over to the king at Radoshkovits, where Sigismund indeed seems to have waited in vain until January 1568 for the coup d’etat.

  Muscovy sped toward catastrophe.

  Despite his professed desire to become a monk, Ivan had Archbishop Gherman murdered in Moscow on November 6, 1567, and after his discovery of the plot to abduct him, unleashed a reign of terror. One eyewitness later recalled:

  It was a pitiful and sorrowful spectacle of slaughter and killings. Every day ten, twenty or more Oprichniki concealing large axes under their cloaks, rode about the streets and alleys. Each detachment had its own list of boyars, dyaki, princes and leading merchants. No one knew what his own guilt or alleged wrongdoing was supposed to be. No one knew the hour of his own death or even the fact that he had been condemned. Everybody went about their affairs as if nothing was the matter. Suddenly a band of killers would descend.2

  The luckiest were forcibly tonsured or exiled to Kazan. One boyar, Peter Shchenyatev (a member of the Staritsky faction in 1553, afterward governor of Polotsk) saw the reprisals coming and withdrew to a monastery. This did not save him. He was dragged from his cell, needles were driven under his nails, and he was roasted in a large iron pan. Another prince, impaled on a stake “which came out at his naeck, languished in horrible paine for fiften houres alive, and spake unto his mother brought to behold that wofull sight,… the Emperour saying, ‘such as I favour I have honoured, and such as be treytors will I have thus done unto.’ ”3