by Tom Pugh
It might be coincidence, though few men were foolhardy enough to travel this route in winter.
The smudge disappeared. It took Longstaff a moment to realize that they were no longer climbing, the contours of the buried land almost invisible in the flat, white light. He crawled along the sled, hauling himself up beside Gosha. “Men behind.”
From deep within his furred hood, the Saamid stared at him expressionlessly. Longstaff looked up at the dull sky. “Probably nothing.” He nodded. Even if those distant figures were the Tzar’s men, they wouldn’t travel by night. Tomorrow, he would be safe behind the high stone walls of Riga. The townsfolk hated Ivan, and would side with any man against his soldiers.
Gosha lifted his eyes to the sky. “Losing the light.” How long ago had they stopped climbing? How far to the edge of the plateau? “Another mile,” said Longstaff, looking back.
The Saamid slept beside his dogs. Longstaff made himself comfortable beside the low fire, warming his hands in Sparrow’s thick coat. Above, a few stars were visible through lowering clouds. Behind, there was only darkness. Longstaff shivered, hearing the thin, dismal cries of wolves in the distance. He collected more wood from the sled and threw it on the fire.
Torches.
Six bright flames had appeared by the time Longstaff pounded Gosha awake. The Saamid required no explanation. He whistled his dogs together and buckled them into harness. Longstaff watched impatiently, but knew his clumsy fingers would only slow the huntsman. Already the torches seemed to have halved the distance. He scrambled aboard the sled as Gosha jerked the dogs into life.
Behind, six orbs of smokey light. Ahead, Gosha’s stocky silhouette. Everywhere else, nothing but the great, swallowing darkness. Could they hide? Longstaff thought of ordering Gosha to swerve to one side, but even a child could follow sled tracks in the snow.
He jettisoned the last of their firewood as the six flames grew gradually brighter. Snow emerged from the darkness, a yawning expanse of grey. Longstaff looked up. Heavy clouds still hung in great curtains above. It wasn’t the moon lending a dull light to the snowfields, but the first glimmers of dawn.
Two sleds emerged from the gloom, three horses to each, another four men on horseback. Longstaff heard a distant shout. They’d seen him and the sleds surged ahead of the horsemen. The downward weight of the riders was enough to break the hard crust of snow, the softer stuff balling in the hooves of the horses and slowing them.
But the sleds were gaining fast. The drivers lashed their beasts, less than a mile behind now.
“How much further?” yelled Longstaff. Gosha pointed at a wide strip of forest. The trees would provide cover. Beyond them, Longstaff made out the tall spires of Riga. He felt a surge of hope.
Boyars, two on each sled. No doubt that these were Ivan’s men, his bloodhounds – Longstaff recognized them by the tall hats and thick beards. Their long, fur coats lay open to reveal curved sabres. Longstaff retrieved his musket from beneath the furs. It was already primed and loaded. He made sure the powder was dry, lit a match from his tinderbox, aimed at the nearest driver and touched the firing pan. There was a bang, a flash of smoke. Six men ducked low on the onrushing sleds. They all straightened, unharmed. The range was too great. The Russians raised their own muskets and returned fire.
Longstaff steadied himself, poured powder and ball into the musket-barrel, tamped it down. A few more grains in the pan. The trees were close now – less than half a mile – the boyars a hundred and fifty yards behind. It was going to be desperately close.
Lead shot bit into the sled’s left hand runner, sending splinters of wood flying through the air. Longstaff flinched. To have come so far. He closed one eye, cheek against the hard wooden stock and looked down the long barrel. He drew a bead on one of the horses, took a deep breath before firing.
The horse screamed as the musket ball tore a streak of pain along its flank, rearing, dragging its companions sideways.
Then they were plunging into the forest, the second sled only yards behind. Ivan’s men threw down their muskets and drew sabres, grinning behind the heavy beards. Gosha swerved left. The horse-drawn sled went right, picking up speed on a track beaten in the snow. Longstaff dropped his gun, drew his own katzbalger sword. The snow was so deep he could see the boyars’ tall hats above the trees, overtaking, about to jump down and butcher him.
Longstaff took three rapid steps, leapt and landed on the horse-sled’s nearside runner. He slipped, lunged for the rail and swung his sword in a hard, flat arc. The Tzar’s men stumbled away from the whistling blade as Longstaff hauled himself over the side. The driver swerved left, attempting to trample the dogs. Gosha snapped the reins; stripped of Longstaff’s weight, the dog-sled shot forwards.
The two boyars lurched sideways, surprised by the sudden change of direction. Longstaff stepped inside a clumsy swipe and drove his sword through the nearest man’s stomach. The Russian flopped against him, trapping the weapon as the second assassin closed. Longstaff dug the toes of his boots into the thick furs, lifted the dying boyar off the rocking sled and barrelled forwards, knocking the second man aside.
He wrenched his sword free, let the corpse fall against the driver. The man yanked at the reins. The near-side horse began to rear, his running-mates pulling in different directions. The sled bucked wildly, threw the driver clear, cannoned through the trees and toppled over.
Longstaff landed in the soft snow. The boyar had been less fortunate. He lay motionless at the foot of a tree, bleeding from a shallow head wound. The first sled was coming again. Longstaff caught a glimpse of it through the trees. He’d only winged the horse and it was running gamely now.
Longstaff crawled across the snow, praying he wouldn’t sink through the thin crust. He reached the horses, hacked at the tethers, severed the thick leather on the third pass. Men shouted. The sled hurtled towards him.
Longstaff helped a horse to its feet, mounted in the same movement and spurred the animal forward. Muskets fired. He bent low, arms thrown around the broad neck.
The trees thinned. He emerged into a wide ring of cleared land, with Riga less than half a mile away. People filled the open ground. Some skated on the frozen ponds, while others hauled fodder towards the thick walls. They looked up in surprise, staring at the dog-sled, the bareback rider one hundred yards behind and the horse-sled emerging from the trees. When they saw the tall hats and curved swords, fishermen seized their ice-knives, woodmen their axes and ran to intercept the hated invaders. A soldier on the city walls raised his musket and fired a warning shot.
Longstaff turned his stolen horse. The horse-sled had stopped one hundred yards behind. The boyars stood at the rail, arms folded on their chests.
Matthew Longstaff laughed with relief as their driver turned the sled, retreating into the trees. He had half a mind to roar insults at these men who’d been sent to kill him. Instead, he lifted an arm in mock salute, wheeled his saddleless horse and cantered the last few hundred yards to safety.
Longstaff’s arrival attracted attention. The Captain of the Guard cleared a path through curious townsfolk, waiting impatiently while Longstaff settled with Gosha. He gave the huntsman double the agreed sum. Gosha nodded, his face as impassive as ever. Three Saamid appeared, unharnessed the dogs in silence and led them away. Gosha followed, taking his leave without a word.
Four well-dressed young men cantered into view while Longstaff wrapped his musket in greaseproof paper. They wore swords at their sides and muskets strapped across the saddles. The Captain stifled a curse, barking a command to his men.
“No one leaves. Keep these idiots here until I get back.” He nodded for Longstaff to follow, striding through the narrow streets to the main square. A hurried conversation took place on the steps of the Town Hall. The Captain marched away without a backward glance, while a young clerk in a woollen robe tugged at Longstaff’s sleeve, escorting him to an empty chamber. “Someone will be with you shortly.”
A warm decanter of wine stood
on the mantelpiece. Longstaff helped himself to a glass before taking a seat with a view of the door. All sense of triumph had vanished. How had the boyars found him? He and Gosha had left the Saamid camp before dawn. It had been snowing, thick flakes covering the wide tracks of the sled. Was it simple bad luck? Had Ivan sent search parties in every direction, skimming across the buried roads to Kazan, Minsk and Veliky Novgorod? Or had the merchant talked? The Tzar was well known as a friend to informers.
Longstaff didn’t want to consider the alternative – that he’d been recognised, a connection made between Herr Fischer and the thief in the Terem Palace.
An older man walked into the room, pulled a cloth cap from his head and threw it to one side. He stopped when he saw Sparrow.
“Bitch looks minded to take my arm off.”
Longstaff pinched his forearm. Patience. “She’s as gentle as a mother. She’ll give you no trouble.”
The man rubbed a callused hand across his jaw. “Unlike her master.”
Longstaff raised his hands. “I’m passing through, seeking passage to Lübeck.”
“It brings me no pleasure, seeing Ivan’s men this far west. And I have no sympathy with spies.”
“My disagreement with the boyars is a private matter,” replied Longstaff. “I’ve committed no crime.”
“Nor have those Muscovites, as far as I’m aware. The fools in this city were ready to go after them just the same, those who haven’t already taken the Tzar’s gold. It’s precisely the sort of incident Ivan can use as an excuse for war.”
Longstaff drained his glass, trying to close his ears to the appeal in the man’s voice. “Ivan will come when he’s ready. Divine right is all the excuse he needs.”
“And what will Lübeck do when he comes? Stand idly by?”
The old man was clearly desperate, willing to let him go in return for a morsel of hope. Longstaff felt sick, though he showed no trace of it. He knew Lübeck. It was the city his father had sent him to, before mounting the scaffold and dying for his faith. Longstaff dropped his voice, giving his words a significance they did not possess. “The city fathers are gathering information. They won’t do anything until they have all the facts.”
The man stared at him: “Not everyone wants to ally with Poland; tell them that. There’s still time to revive the old alliances – Lübeck, Hamburg, Bremen, Cologne.”
Too late, thought Longstaff, rising to his feet. He could have wept for the old man; the League of German cities was exhausted, dominated by merchant princes too rich and well fed to go to war, but he would let the old man go on hoping if it meant safe passage out of Riga. He offered his hand: “I’ll do what I can.”
Longstaff made one detour on his way to the port, turning aside when he saw the wooden steeple of a nearby church. He knocked the snow off his boots, still angry with himself for deceiving the old man, and stepped inside.
He thought of Herr Fischer – had the merchant fallen into Ivan’s clutches? – and the boyar he’d killed just hours earlier. Lies, fear, and violence: for the sake of a book.
Longstaff dropped to his knees on the stone floor, staring blankly at a painted screen in front of the altar, the only splash of colour in the dour interior. The wooden boards were crowded with naked figures. Some marched triumphantly into Heaven, others suffered the torments of Hell. It was a large, confusing image – and incomplete. Three human-shaped outlines stood ominously blank against the painted boards. The city had declared for Luther and the holy family had been condemned as idols, leaving only images of pain and cruelty.
Longstaff closed his eyes. His mother had died in childbirth and he’d spent his early years with the servants at Martlesham. His father would appear every few months, always smiling, with a bag full of presents slung across one shoulder – until Luther’s doctrine wormed its way into his heart. Longstaff remembered sitting on his father’s broad knee – he couldn’t have been more than seven. Sir William had opened a slim folio, caressing the soft leather as he pointed to a page of ugly script, the sketch of a man with heavy jowls and sloping forehead.
His father had been executed two years later, but not before King Henry permitted him to make arrangements for his exiled son. Longstaff had arrived in Lübeck soon after, to begin a new life in the home of his father’s friend, Paul Lammermeier, staunch Lutheran and wealthy merchant. Longstaff still remembered his first night in the city, lying awake in the unfamiliar bed, stiff sheets against cold skin, staring at the high ceilings and intricate tapestries of his new home. Nine years old, half wild with fury; he’d blamed Lammermeier, Luther and the King.
Longstaff’s father had died by his own hand; Henry’s lawyers had given him the chance to recant, but he’d chosen a point of doctrine over life and family.
Longstaff sighed. Once again, he was bound for Lübeck; once again he was blaming the wrong people. He couldn’t hold the Otiosi responsible for the boyar’s death. In the cold church, Longstaff bowed his head and prayed. Forgive me, Lord, for what I have done. Forgive me for what I must still do.
He rose to his feet. Sir Nicholas Bacon had demanded a year of his life. Nearly seven months of their contract remained, before Longstaff could return to the country he had not seen in twenty-six years and finally lay his father’s ghost to rest.
CHAPTER 7
Tosterup Castle, Denmark, February 1st, 1562
Gaetan Durant tried to adopt the servant’s gait. He pulled the cloth cap low over his dark hair and shortened his long stride. It didn’t come naturally; he had been educated as a gentleman and raised in a beautiful house near Bordeaux – soft hills studded with vineyards and wide tracts of old forest. His grandfather had bought the estate after making his fortune in fish, wine and the precious blue dye known as woad. Durant had married young and settled down to a life of country pursuits and domestic bliss. He would have been there still, if plague hadn’t devastated the region in 1549.
The corridors on the first floor of Tosterup Castle were long, monotonous and deserted. A fresco covered the ceiling. Durant stared at the poorly executed figure of a woman, eyes hidden behind a blindfold, two fat cherubs buzzing like flies around her head. Justice is blind. He sneered. Justice is a bulky woman decorating the corridors of a Danish castle.
Durant’s step faltered. Unbidden, an image of his wife rose in his mind. Body wreathed in plague sores. Light dying in her desperate eyes, ice-cold limbs bathed in sweat. He remembered lifting a cup to her lips and watching the wine trace a bloody path along her sunken cheek. That was God’s justice, for any artist with the courage to look.
The servant glanced nervously up and down the corridor before pointing to a closed door. “Tycho’s chamber.”
Durant nodded, “Wait here. Knock if anyone comes.” He slipped inside, turning the key behind him.
The floor was covered with thick carpets, any one of which might conceal a loose floorboard. The oak-panelled walls and modest stone fireplace were obvious hiding places, but the Frenchman guessed he would be wasting his time. The Otiosi, in the form of that tedious lawyer, Mathern Schoff, had sent him to find a palimpsest; Danish script on the surface, Latin text beneath. Parchment was expensive and people often scraped the pages clean to reuse them. Sometimes, over a period of months and years, traces of the original reappeared.
He took a long, slow breath. The carpets had been liberally sprinkled with herbs; he identified marjoram, camomile, germander and lavender. Durant looked past the fireplace and heavy oak bed. It was the bookcase and secretaire which stood out with greatest clarity, and the duelling blades mounted on the wall – fine pieces of modern workmanship, at odds with the rest of the room. The lawyer in Lübeck had told him that Tycho was sixteen. The castle belonged to his uncle, one of Denmark’s leading statesmen, who’d forcibly removed the boy from his brother’s care as a baby. No one in the family had ever explained why.
Durant opened the glass doors of the bookcase and stepped back, tapping fingertips against his bottom lip. At chest height,
where the eye fell naturally, he saw an ornate collection of letters patent and a beautifully bound family history. These were a feint – the thick layer of dust proved as much – positioned to distract casual viewers from seeing what really mattered.
A large empty space lay in the centre of the second shelf. Durant looked at the collection on the right, stacked with their spines upward to protect the pages from dust. These books were beautifully illustrated, each written in a subtly different hand, whereas the books on the left were printed, and seemed to lurk with menacing uniformity. Durant read the titles. Treatises describing the various errors of the Roman Catholic Church; books of poetry, including Boccaccio’s Decameron and Dante’s Inferno; tomes concerning science and philosophy.
He looked for further clues to Tycho’s character in the order of the volumes. They hadn’t been arranged alphabetically, nor, it seemed, thematically. He stared at the gap between the two rows. It wasn’t a question of old and new. At least half the printed books had been written centuries earlier. It was their ubiquity that made them indestructible, whereas each of the painted books was a work of art in its own right. Durant thought of the scribes who’d spent their lives in draughty scriptoriums, copying information from crumbling manuscripts, hoping to preserve these fragile links to a half-forgotten world. Humble men, they’d known that no two copies would ever be the same and believed that every error they made was one new flaw in the fabric of God’s world.
The gap in the centre of the shelf was a battlefield, where a war was being fought between those who believed in the inevitability of decay and those who believed in the inevitability of perfection. Tycho had ensured that the two sides were evenly matched, allotting equal space to past and future.