by Ann Swinfen
‘You are the doctor from England?’
‘I am, Your Majesty. My name is Christoval Alvarez, and this is my friend and interpreter, Pyotr Ivanovich Aubery.’
‘Do you not have a patronymic?’
‘Where I come from,’ I said gravely, ‘we do not use patronymics, but if we did I should be known as Christoval Balthazarovich Alvarez.’
‘Your father has a strange name.’
‘Aye, he did, Majesty.’
He grew thoughtful at that. ‘He is dead, your father?’
‘He is, God rest his soul.’
‘My father too is dead.’
I noticed that he did not bless his father and wondered what had been the relationship between that terrible man and his small son. A man who had murdered his own eldest surviving son, heir to his kingdom, and then wept at his own deed. What a dreadful inheritance this child had been born to.
The dog bounded across the room to me and I held out my hand to him. After giving it a thorough inspection, he licked it. I crouched down and rubbed him behind the ears, something Rikki always enjoyed. The dog responded by rolling on his back and looking up at me with frank friendliness, his tongue slightly protruding from his mouth. I laughed and rubbed the stomach thus presented.
Dmitri Ivanovich, Tsarevich of Muscovy, drew nearer. Then squatted down on the other side of the wolfhound.
‘He never does that. Not even with people he knows. Never with strangers.’
‘What is his name, this fine dog?’
‘I call him Volk.’
It was one of the first words Pyotr had taught me. Wolf. He thought it might be useful in the wilderness of Muscovy.
‘My dog is called Rikki,’ I said.
The boy looked behind me, his eyes lighting up hopefully, but I shook my head.
‘I had to leave him behind in England. The journey would have been too long. He would not have been happy. I miss him very much.’
His hand joined mine, rubbing Volk’s stomach, and he gave me a sympathetic smile. ‘I would be very sad without Volk. Is he a wolfhound, your Rikki?’
‘Nay, he is a Dutch carriage dog.’ This was a breed I invented on the spur of the moment. I wanted to invest my nondescript Rikki with some dignity. ‘He is about as tall as Volk, but much heavier, built for strength rather than speed. He is a golden brown. He saved my life once, when I was attacked by three men with swords.’
His eyes widened. ‘Was he hurt?’
‘Aye, a sword slash in his side, but he was very brave when I stitched it up. I think Volk can smell Rikki on my gown, and that is why he came to me. Dogs understand these things.’
‘I think Volk would save my life, if I was in danger.’ A bleak look passed over his face, and I knew at that moment that, young as he was, Dmitri understood very well the nature of his own danger.
‘I am sure he would,’ I said gently.
‘Dimitka moi,’ a voice spoke over our heads, ‘why are you and the doctor on the floor?’
The prince and I both stood up hastily. I shook out my gown and made a hurried obeisance, Dmitri bowed, and the dog sat up, alert, his head on one side.
‘I was introducing Volk to Dr Christoval Balfazarovich, Mamochka.’ His tone was polite, but not in any way apologetic. I think he took some pride in remembering my peculiar patronymic.
She smiled, and I realised that she had not minded my playing with the dog. She was not quite so formally dressed today, having laid aside the crown. Her hair, which had been bundled tightly into a head cloth before, though a head cloth of silver tissue, was less rigidly controlled this morning, for a small strand had escaped over her cheek. It was the same red gold colour as her son’s untidy curls, which still bore traces of the fluff from his private cave under the furniture. She noticed this, and brushed it away, with that click of the tongue which is a universal language amongst mothers. With a pang, I remembered my mother making the same sound when I came in dirty after playing outside on my grandfather’s solar.
‘My son, the doctor is a busy man and needs to examine you. Show him to your bed chamber.’
The three of us crossed to a door at the other end of the room, while Pyotr remained behind with the majordomo. This room was almost as alien to a young boy’s needs as the other, although there were a few carved wooden toys here, some dancing bears on a stick, a set of soldiers, a red leather ball with tooth marks. There was an elaborate dog’s bed in pristine condition, with never a sign of hair on it. I suspected this was not due to any particular attention on the part of the servants, but because Volk shared his master’s bed, an enormous affair, in which he would have been lost without the dog’s company.
Fortunately the room was well heated with another of the huge stoves, so I did not feel too cruel in asking Dmitri to strip. He shivered a little, his skin white as a girl’s, his limbs still childishly delicate. Clearly he had not yet been set to any training in the manly sports, as a boy of his age and class would have been in England. Perhaps the Tsarina was too fearful for his safety.
Despite this, he was perfectly healthy and answered my questions about his bodily functions shyly but without prevarication. There did not seem to be any lasting damage done by the incidents of attempted poisoning. He had undressed without the help of a servant, and dressed again unaided, spurning his mother’s help. I hid my surprise. Such a child in England would not expect to dress himself. Perhaps again his mother wished to avoid too much contact with unreliable servants, though a nurse had been mentioned yesterday.
‘Now, Majesty,’ I said, ‘I need you to tell me what happened on these occasions when you ate something which disagreed with you.’
‘You mean, when I was poisoned?’
I had hoped to avoid the word, but he looked at me with bleak knowledge in his eyes.
‘Aye. Tell me how you felt.’
‘I was dizzy and I fell over. And my arms and legs flew about, like this.’
He performed a grotesque mimicry of someone having a seizure, ending with throwing himself on the floor. The Tsarina went pale, and pressed her clasped hands to her breast, but Dmitri hopped up again, clearly rather pleased with his performance.
‘And afterwards? How long did this last?’
‘I forgot to say. I was also very sick.’ He made a realistic vomiting noise, loud enough to bring the majordomo rushing into the room, but the Tsarina waved him away irritably.
‘I don’t remember how long. How long did I faint, Mamochka?’
‘Perhaps half an hour.’ She spoke with difficulty.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘it was good you were sick. It got rid of the nastiness.’
Volk had come over to me, as if for reassurance in view of this disturbing performance. I ran his ears through my fingers without really noticing what I was doing, and he leaned against my leg.
‘Majesty,’ I said, ‘will you promise me something, so that Volk is not frightened by that happening again?’
The boy knelt down and put his arm around the dog, pressing his face into the silky coat. I realised that the performance was nothing but bravado. He was trembling.
‘What should I promise?’ he mumbled against the dog’s side.
‘Promise that you will never, ever, accept food from strangers. Nor even from people you know, not until it has been tasted by someone else first.’
He nodded, not lifting his face from the dog’s coat.
‘I promise.’ He gulped, then whispered, ‘It was horrible when Natalya Petrovna died.’
He was the first to mention the girl’s name. I laid my hand for a moment on the back of the thin neck, so childlike and vulnerable under the red gold hair. Never mind that this was a prince of the blood royal. He was also a small boy, living in daily fear.
‘If you are careful,’ I whispered back, ‘it will not happen to you.’
After we left Dmitri’s quarters, I was conducted back to the room where I had met the Tsarina the previous day. My mind was haunted by the image of the lonely litt
le boy, hiding under the furniture with his dog. I had to hold back my anger that men greedy for power should treat a child like so much rubbish, to be swept carelessly out of the way.
‘So, Dr Alvarez,’ the Tsarina said, gesturing me to a chair beside an ornate table. Both were heavy with ormolu work. ‘He is perfectly healthy, my son?’
I nodded. ‘Perfectly healthy.’
‘No sign of the falling sickness?’
‘None. I think we may take it as certain that what he suffered was purely the effects of the gyromitra esculenta.’
‘Good.’
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Pyotr standing near the door, shifting restlessly from foot to foot.
‘Forgive me, Your Majesty, but the rest of my party is awaiting our return in Yaroslavl and we are expected in Moscow. Will it be convenient for us to leave today? We have been received most courteously here in Uglich, but I do not wish to inconvenience Master Christopher Holme, who is anxious to take up his post as chief agent of the Muscovy Company. He needs to reach the Moscow house as soon as possible.’
‘I understand, but there is one more thing I should like you to do for me, Dr Alvarez, and after that it will be too late to set out today. You may leave tomorrow morning.’
I could see there would be no arguing with her. Whatever her position in the rest of Muscovy, Maria Nagaya ruled absolutely in Uglich.
‘And what would you have me do, Majesty?’
‘I want you to write out a certificate for the Tsarevich, stating that he is not suffering from the falling sickness. The symptoms he exhibited before were the result of attempted poisoning by unknown persons by means of a deadly mushroom. Name it, specifically, so that they will know their schemes have been uncovered and you were able to identify the source of the poison.’
I noticed that Pyotr had frozen, with an expression of horror on his face. I was seized with a moment of sheer terror. Then I tried to speak calmly.
‘Majesty, if I write such a certificate, and sign it, then I sign my own death warrant. If you show this document to those who would kill your son, then they will not hesitate to kill me, for I will have thwarted their plans to depict the Tsarevich as incapable, even if they have failed to poison him. You are asking me to lay a knife to my own throat.’
She looked straight into my eyes and gave a sharp nod. She knew as well as I what the consequences would be and had anticipated my reaction. Could she keep me here by force until I complied? Almost certainly.
‘I will make a bargain with you, Dr Alvarez,’ she said. ‘Write out the certificate and I will keep it locked away until you leave the country. With the next English fleet, will it be?’
‘Aye. In August.’
At least that was what I hoped. Surely by then I would either have discovered what had happened to Gregory Rocksley or been forced to abandon my search.
‘Then it cannot be used against you while you are in this country. Once you return to England, there will be no danger to you.’
She walked to the door and opened it. The majordomo was standing immediately beyond and she gave him some rapid instructions. He looked surprised, but bowed and left. As he did so, the two women attendants and the armed guard entered. They must also have been waiting just outside. I shivered. The Tsarina lived always under the eyes of people who could not be trusted. A short time later, the majordomo returned and laid a book on the table with a bow. He withdrew a few steps, but watched us intently.
The Tsarina laid her right hand on the book.
‘This is a Bible. I belong to the Orthodox faith. I know that you are one of these Protestants whom our own Church regards as heretics, but I think I have seen enough of you to judge that you will accept my oath on the Bible.’ She gave a sad little smile. ‘There are not many that Dmitri would allow to caress his Volk. Nor many strangers the dog would not attack.’
‘Of course I will accept your oath, Majesty.’ I did not burden her with an explanation of my dubious faith, in which Jewish, Catholic, and Protestant swirled in confusion.
‘Very well. Here, you, Pyotr Ivanovich!’ She gestured to him to come nearer. ‘You shall bear witness. I swear on the Holy Word that I will keep locked away the certificate that Dr Alvarez is to write, concerning the Tsarevich’s health. I shall show it to no one, until he has left the country. Amen.’
‘Amen,’ we both said.
I would have to trust her.
The Tsarina shared a midday meal with us there, then she sent away her attendants and retired to a window-seat while paper, ink, quill, and wax were brought for me to use. I suppose we were not exactly prisoners in that room, but there seemed to be no possibility of leaving it until she had got what she wanted.
I wrote out in some detail how I had examined the Tsarevich and my conclusions that he clearly showed no signs of the falling sickness. I then repeated all the information I had received about the four occasions on which he had been taken ill, the effects on him, and the more severe attacks of the same symptoms which had resulted in the death of the maidservant, Natalya Petrovna. Next I set out precisely the discovery of gyromitra esculenta in the remains of the food she had consumed, the known effects of this poisonous fungus, and my unqualified conclusion that the same poison had caused the death of the servant and the earlier illness of the Tsarevich.
I read it through when I had finished, then read it aloud to the Tsarina, translating as I went, for I had written it in Latin. She agreed that it covered every point that she wanted explained. I then dictated it in English to Pyotr, who wrote the whole certificate out again in Russian, for I expected the learned men of Muscovy would not be familiar with Latin, which they probably regarded as a despicable modern tongue.
By the time we had finished, it was dark outside. I melted some of the sealing wax over a candle, then dropped a puddle of it at the bottom of the certificate. I still wore the seal Arthur Gregory had made for me on a chain around my neck. I lifted the chain over my head and pressed the seal firmly into the soft wax, leaving a clear imprint that linked me irrevocably to the document. When the wax was hard, I rose from my chair, stiff from remaining seated so long. The Tsarina was still in the window seat, sitting in near darkness, as I handed her the closely written sheet.
‘Very good,’ she said, rising. ‘Rest now. I will see that your sleighs are ready at dawn tomorrow.’
I think Pyotr and I both held our breath until we were back again in our own quarters. Shutting the door behind him, Pyotr leaned against it, and let his out in a long sigh.
‘She fairly had you by the balls, lad.’
He had never addressed me so familiarly before, but it had been a trying day. I agreed that she had.
‘Thank the good Lord, we leave tomorrow. Is that food I see? Do you think it is safe? She’s got what she wants now.’
The same thought had crossed my mind, but I found I was ravenous. The food which had been left in our room was far more modest than the previous night’s supper, but we had dined well with the Tsarina earlier. We both examined the food carefully, but it seemed safe. There was another sealed bottle of wine, bread, a hard white cheese, dried fruits, and some of Pyotr’s beloved caviar. The caviar was the only thing which might have held poison, and I declined it, but assured Pyotr that I would have a vomitive to hand, should he show signs of poisoning.
At that he regarded the caviar dubiously, but yielded to temptation, eating it by tiny spoonfuls and showing no untoward effects. The remaining food was clearly harmless. After satisfying my hunger, I packed away all my belongings except my thick travelling clothes and fell asleep again fully dressed.
I was woken by the sound of Pyotr speaking to someone in the outer room. It was still dark, but I supposed that it might already be time to get ready to leave. I pulled on my boots and went through to the other room. Pyotr was speaking to an elderly woman too swiftly for me to understand. On seeing me, she dropped to the ground and kissed my boot, to my intense embarrassment.
‘What is i
t?’ I said to Pyotr. ‘What is the matter?’
‘This is the Tsarevich’s nurse. He wants to see you before we leave.’
‘Is he ill?’ I asked in alarm, turning aside to fetch my satchel.
‘Nay, not at all. He wants you to take something to Moscow for him.’
This was mystifying, but Pyotr and I followed the old woman back to the prince’s apartments, where she entered without knocking and led us into the bed chamber.
Dmitri had laid aside his stiff embroidered gown of the previous day and was wearing nothing but a simple night shift. Simple, except that it was made of silk. His hair was tousled from sleep and his feet were bare. The sight of him made my throat tighten with pity, he looked so small and vulnerable.
‘Christoval Balfazarovich,’ he said formally, ‘would you be kind enough to carry a package to Moscow for me?’
I knelt down, to bring myself nearer to his height, but I resisted the urge to hug him.
‘I should be happy to do so, Majesty. And that it far too big a mouthful for a name. My friends call me Kit.’
His whole face lit up, and I realised with a pang that it was possible no one had ever offered him simple friendship before.’
‘Then you must call me Dmitri.’ He glanced over his shoulder at his nurse, but clearly he trusted her. ‘Only,’ he whispered, ‘not in front of my mother.’
‘It shall be our secret,’ I promised. ‘Now, where is this package?’
He held out a thick package of vellum, inexpertly tied together with a piece of ribbon woven with gold thread. It looked as though it had been ripped from a garment and I hoped it would not bring trouble down on the child or the nurse.
‘And to whom am I to deliver this package?’ I saw that it bore no address as I tucked it into the breast of my doublet. I doubted that it was intended for his half-brother the Tsar. From all I had gathered they had no affection for each other.
He glanced around again, as if he feared that the walls had ears. Which, I thought, they might well do.
‘It is for me cousin Xenia, I have drawn her a picture of Volk and written a story for her. She tries to write to me, but it is . . . difficult.’