by Ann Swinfen
‘Now we wait,’ he said.
I felt that, since I had been summoned, surely word should have been left that I was to be admitted when I arrived. As we waited, it grew darker, and the horses began to steam in the cold air.
‘This is dangerous for the horses,’ I said. ‘They should be walked till they cool down, or else covered with rugs. The shock of the cold could kill them.’
Pyotr gave me an odd look. ‘Why should you care?’
I have no patience with this attitude, but merely pointed out tartly that we might need our horses if we were ever to leave Uglich. There was nothing I could do, however, until eventually a man who was clearly a captain of the guard emerged from the gatehouse and indicated that the wide gates were to be opened and our sleigh was to be allowed to pass through. Our guards, however, were not permitted beyond the gatehouse.
We set off again through the last of the daylight along a drive which had been partially cleared, some of the snow thrown up into banks on either side, although fresh snow had fallen since, probably earlier that day. The drive swept round in a curve and ahead of us I saw an extraordinary house. Nay, I should say ‘palace’, for this was the palace of Uglich.
The dark red brick of the walls stood out in stark contrast to the snow that lay all around and to the deep green of the pines, some of which grew quite close to the house. There was a vaulted undercroft, while a wide outside staircase led up to the first floor, making one sharp right-angled turn. The stair was roofed and at three points it was capped with curious conical turrets, like the hats you may see upon the heads of witches in the illustrated ha’penny sheets of dreadful tales, hawked about the streets of London. I was becoming accustomed to the onion domes of the churches in Muscovy, but I had never seen turrets like these. Two great pillars supported the lower end of the stairway roof, turned in a spiral like crude bed posts. The whole building seemed very strange, a mixture of sophistication and naïveté.
‘Have you ever seen this place before?’ I whispered to Pyotr as we climbed out of the sleigh.
He shook his head, but did not speak. A man, very tall and imposing, was descending the stairway toward us. A steward or majordomo, I guessed. No minor servant, for he wore a gown of red velvet threaded with gold. On his head was a tall headdress, built up in layers, and he carried a gilded staff of office.
All three of us bowed.
‘Be welcome to the Kremlin of Uglich,’ the man said. ‘The Tsarina awaits your coming with gladness. Be pleased to follow me.’
He spoke slowly, and I was able to understand what he said. I opened my mouth to answer, but he did not wait for me to speak, instead turning on his heel and beginning to ascend the stairs again. Pyotr and I caught up our bags while the drivers and sleigh were hustled away to an outbuilding which I could just make out in the failing light. I hoped that it was a stable and that both men and horses would be well treated.
The house was beginning to blaze with light. We followed the steward – if that was what he was – past torches lodged in iron sconces at the side of the outside staircase, then entered the main door of the palace. Servants were moving from room to room, lighting candelabra, until the whole house was nearly as bright as day.
The first thing I saw was a large icon, clearly of great antiquity and glowing with gold leaf, which I thought might have come from Byzantium. I had been instructed what to do, though in my heart I rebelled against it. Pyotr and I both knelt before the icon, and pressed our foreheads to the floor. To have ignored the icon would have been to insult the Tsarina, and I knew I must proceed cautiously.
When we stood, the man led us along a passageway and up an inside staircase to an upper floor.
He opened a door and stood back.
‘These rooms are for the English physician. Your servant,’ he gave Pyotr a cursory glance, ‘will be given lodging in the servants’ quarters.’
I knew with absolute certainty that I did not want to be separated from Pyotr now, whatever my earlier reservations.
‘Pyotr Ivanovich is no servant,’ I said in my slow and careful Russian. ‘He is a gentleman and my interpreter. He will share my quarters.’
If the man was surprised at my Russian or my presumption, he showed no sign of it. He merely inclined his head. ‘Very well. A maidservant will bring you water to wash. I will return in an hour to escort you to the Tsarina.’
With that, he left us.
I closed the door behind him and exchanged a glance with Pyotr, then let out my held breath in a gust of relief.
‘If the steward is that formidable, what will the Tsarina be like?’
He gave me a weak smile, but raised his finger to his lips and stood close, so that his whisper barely stirred the air.
‘These houses have peepholes and listening tubes. Be careful what you say and do.’ Then he went on in a normal tone, ‘There are two rooms. This parlour and a bed chamber beyond. I will sleep on the couch here, so that if anyone comes, I can speak to them. You managed very well with your Russian, but in an emergency–’
I nodded. The arrangement suited me, and I was already feeling sick with fear. I knew I would feel safer in the inner room, however illusory the idea might be.
The outer room had no windows, but the inner room had one which looked out at the side of the house. To my surprise there was a large sheet of mica in the window, surely an expensive feature. It seemed as clear as glass, though it was too dark to make out much of what lay beyond. I gestured Pyotr over.
‘A possible escape route, should we need one,’ I whispered.
‘We would not get far.’
‘How old is the palace?’ I said, in a normal tone of voice. ‘Do you know?’
‘I think about a hundred years.’
We continued to discuss the history of the palace for the benefit of anyone who might be listening, while I shook out my physician’s gown and Pyotr removed his outdoor clothes. When the maid arrived with the water, Pyotr asked directions to the privy.
I seized the opportunity while he was gone to strip off several layers of my own clothes and wash, then I donned my gown and cap, and checked that the contents of my medicine satchel had survived the journey intact. Pyotr returned, followed closely by the steward and we were led back down the stairs to the main floor of the palace.
There was an enfilade of grand rooms leading one into the other on this floor. Each was like a jewel casket. The wall hangings were tapestries from France, the rugs were Turkish, which surprised me, for I thought the Muscovites and Turks were constantly at war. The furniture looked heavy and clumsy to my eye, accustomed to English furniture which was more delicate and finely carved, but every horizontal surface was crowded with Venetian crystal and heaped with gold plates and goblets and vessels of every kind. There seemed to be little eye for beauty here, merely for vulgar ostentation, however valuable this treasure house of riches.
When we reached the third room, the steward spoke at last.
‘You will wait here.’
With that he left, shutting the door behind him. We glanced at each other, but said nothing. There would certainly be eyes watching us here. We did not dare to sit or even move, so we remained standing where we were, in the centre of the room, until we heard footsteps approaching.
I looked at Pyotr and raised my eyebrows. He gave me what I suppose he thought was an encouraging smile, but it looked more like a grimace. I drew a deep breath, awaiting the fearsome wife of Ivan the Terrible, herself the declared enemy of Boris Godunov, the most powerful man in Muscovy. The door opened.
And the most beautiful woman I had ever seen walked in.
Chapter Eight
She was dressed in cloth of gold from head to toe, and every inch of her robe was embroidered with a riot of foliage and flowers picked out in silks of intense hues – azure and ruby and emerald. Tiny pearls outlined the leaves and adorned the stamens of the flowers, while larger gems were sewn in garlands that ran between the flowers. On her head was a gold crown e
ncrusted with more precious jewels, from which a veil of transparent silk floated down over her shoulders and back. I had seen our Queen in formal processions in London, and once face-to-face at Greenwich palace, but even she had not dazzled the eye like Tsarina Maria Nagaya.
I knew I was expected to prostrate myself, even though her claim to the title was denied to her, but before I fell to the ground I realised that the sumptuous clothes meant nothing in comparison to the woman beneath. Her physical beauty was breathtaking. Yet it was not simply the beauty of perfect features. There was great strength in that face. Intelligent eyes, a strong chin, a generous mouth. As I fell to the floor and fixed my eyes on the tips of the golden shoes which just showed beneath the hem of her robe, I knew that, in another life, in another place, I would have wanted to befriend such a woman.
‘You may rise,’ she said. Her voice was low pitched and musical. She spoke slowly, for the benefit of my foreign understanding.
I scrambled somewhat inelegantly to my feet, for I caught my knee in a fold of my gown. How dull my English black looked beside such splendour! I saw a flash of humour in her eyes at my dilemma, but she kept her face grave.
‘I am grateful to you for coming so swiftly, Dr Alvarez,’ she said, ‘through this winter weather. I trust the journey was not too disagreeable.’
‘It was not, Your Majesty.’ I answered carefully, and hoped I had chosen the correct form of address. Pyotr drew back a few steps, realising that his services as interpreter would not be needed unless we encountered difficulties.
‘Please.’ She took a seat and gestured to us to do likewise. Two ladies-in-waiting and an armed guard had followed her into the room and took up positions behind her chair.
‘I am sorry to hear of the misfortunes to the Tsarevich,’ I said slowly, hoping I was making the right approach and wishing I had had time to discuss it with Christopher Holme, or even Pyotr. I was not sure whether one was expected to come at the matter of the prince’s health in a roundabout way.
It seemed I had not made a mistake, for she did not look affronted. Instead, a spasm of pain crossed her face and was quickly suppressed. This was a woman who had learned to control her feelings. I could sense a rigid self-discipline under that lovely exterior. One must remember, of course, that she had been married to the monstrous Ivan for several years. Married against her will, if the tales were true. She would have learned rigid control then. Ivan was reputed always to have chosen the most beautiful women to be found, whether they were willing, or even whether they were already married. One could not fault his judgement in this instance.
‘I believe that there have been four attempts on his life,’ she said, keeping her voice steady. ‘Five, including this latest one.’
I noticed that her ladies in waiting and the guard were watching us closely, and had stiffened at my mention of the Tsarevich. The Tsarina did not bother to turn her head, but raised her hand and pointed imperiously at the door.
‘Out,’ she said.
The women looked at each other nervously, while the guard leaned forward and murmured something in the Tsarina’s ear.
‘Out!’ she repeated.
Reluctantly, they withdrew, probably no further than the other side of the door, I suspected. I understood why she had dismissed them. Even here in her own home, she could not feel safe. There would be spies owing allegiance to Godunov amongst her staff. I would be careful to keep my voice down.
‘Can you tell me more about this latest attempt?’ I said. ‘Poison in your son’s food? A maidservant was ordered to taste it – describe the food and her symptoms before she died.’
I was aware that I was giving her brisk directions, like any other patient, but she seemed to welcome my straightforward approach.
‘There was more than one dish,’ she said, also speaking quietly. ‘A soup of wild celery and cream. Beef cooked with onions, beetroot, mushrooms, chestnuts and dried plums. A comfiture of candied peaches and almonds. There was a sugar confection to follow, but she did not taste that, for she had already begun to feel ill. Another maid tasted the confection and was unharmed.’
‘I do not suppose you have kept samples of the food,’ I said, without much hope. This must all have happened some time ago and I knew from dealing with cases of food poisoning that people usually threw the bad food away immediately.
‘It has all been preserved in a locked pantry,’ she said calmly. ‘Only I have the key.’
This was a woman in a million.
‘Can you tell me about the effects on the girl who died? An unhappy fate.’
There was a flash of anger in her eyes. ‘She was set to spy on us. That was why I chose her to taste my son’s food. She was very reluctant. I suspect she was complicit.’
I pitied the girl. She might have been equally reluctant to spy, but it was too late to help her now.
‘Her symptoms?’
‘To begin with, she complained of stomach pains. I watched her, you may be sure. I could not judge at first whether it was pretence. Then she began to stumble about the room, saying that she was dizzy. And she vomited.’
She made a face, and I had a vivid impression of the scene. The Tsarina with perhaps a few trusted men, the food laid out on the table, the wretched girl. Had the little boy been present, aware of what would have happened to him, had he eaten the food? I realised I was not sure how old he was. The previous Tsar had been dead for six years, and the child was born before he died, so I supposed he must be at least six. Pyotr had guessed seven or eight.
‘Did she die then?’ I asked.
‘Oh, no,’ she said grimly. ‘This is my principal reason for sending for you. She next began to thrash about wildly, flailing with her arms and legs, as though she could not control them, then she fell on the floor in a kind of seizure, her body writhing, her hands stretched out rigid.’ She paused. ‘Later, she died.’
There was something cold in her, which I found less attractive, but before I could question her further, she went on.
‘You see, Dr Alvarez, these are the same symptoms my son has shown on four other occasions. Writhing helplessly, unable to control his limbs, moments of blackness. Not as severe as the girl. And the Blessed Virgin was kind.’ Her eyes flicked to a corner of the room, where I noticed for the first time that there was an icon of the Virgin and Child. ‘My son did not die.’
‘I see,’ I said. Things were now becoming very clear. ‘Your son, has he been examined by other physicians?’
‘Naturally.’ Her lips curled slightly. ‘On the first occasion – it was a remarkable coincidence, was it not? – one of the court physicians had made a stay here for a few days, so he was able to examine my son when he was so afflicted.’
‘And he diagnosed the falling sickness.’ I said.
She nodded.
‘Of course,’ I said, ‘these are the characteristic symptoms. But your son had shown no signs of the illness before?’
‘Never. He is eight years old and has always been strong and healthy. He is a beautiful boy.’ There was both pride and sorrow in her voice. ‘Not,’ she said firmly, ‘like his half brother.’
‘So you believe that the same poison was administered before and produced the same effect which later killed the maidservant.’ It was not a question.
‘It must have been given to him in a small quantity, not enough to kill, though I am sure that was the intention. I do not know how it was given to him, but children can be tempted by sweetmeats, and do not always listen to their mothers.’
I smiled at her. ‘Nay, they do not. But after it happened more than once, you persuaded him to be more careful?’
‘He understands now. He eats nothing that has not been tasted. But of course Godunov has made sure that the story is spread widely throughout the country that my son is a victim of the falling sickness and therefore unfit to be heir to his brother.’
‘From what you have told me,’ I said, ‘it seems unlikely that he has the falling sickness, but that these ep
isodes have occurred as a result of his swallowing the same poison that killed the maid. I think I should first examine what is left of the suspected food, and afterwards examine your son, to make sure that no harm has been done to him.’
‘Come with me,’ she said, rising, with a sudden rustle from her cloth of gold skirts.
She walked swiftly toward the door, but before she reached it, she stopped.
‘I think you have a suspicion what the poison may be, Doctor Alvarez.’
Both an intelligent woman and a shrewd one. She must have read my thoughts in my face.
‘I can think of a possibility,’ I said cautiously. ‘I have no direct experience of it myself, but have read of this particular poison in a book once owned by my father. The effects suffered both by your son and by the maidservant are consistent with the description.’
‘What is the source of the poison?’ she demanded.
‘Let me see the food,’ I said, ‘and I will show you.’
She accepted this and threw open the door. The women and the guard shrank away, but she ignored them, leading me along a corridor to the back of the palace, then down a narrow staircase, clearly meant for servants, for her wide skirts brushed the rough walls on either side. Her attendants followed us and I saw the women exchange a look. There was something patronising in it, as if they believed we were on a fool’s errand. In seemed that they were convinced by the court doctor’s diagnosis and believed that the Tsarina’s summoning of me was folly. I felt angry on her behalf. Why did they suppose the maid had died, in that case? Pyotr followed behind, stealing glances from side to side, as if he suspected a trap. Or perhaps he was assessing escape routes, as I had done, almost instinctively, in the bed chamber.
At the bottom of the stairs we reached what must be the back premises of the undercroft, where the kitchens, laundry, bakehouse and store rooms were located. The Tsarina stopped before a small door and drew a long, fine chain up from round her neck. Hidden under the golden finery of her gown had lain a small bunch of keys. One of these she selected and unlocked the door.